


La Douleur Exquise

by Darkrivertempest



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/M, HP: EWE, Mental Health Issues, Mild Language, Minor Violence, Mystery, Past Sexual Assault, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-18 06:57:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1419012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrivertempest/pseuds/Darkrivertempest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A budding relationship between Draco and Hermione is cut short when Draco goes missing.  When Hermione eventually finds out what happened to him, it will take everything she's got to bring him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phlox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phlox/gifts).



> Written for the lovely and awesome Phlox!
> 
> I snagged parts from two of your prompts, so hopefully this will be something along the lines of what you like. 
> 
> Huge thanks to my betas D and M - you gals are made of awesomeness!
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and WB. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

_La douleur exquise ~ the heart-wrenching pain of wanting the affection of someone unattainable._

“Miss Granger,” Lucius Malfoy said quietly, though his body practically vibrated with tension. “Please don’t take this personally when I say that I don’t have much faith in your ability to find my son.”

Hermione Granger glanced at her slightly shaking fingers that were resting in her lap. “I don’t take it personally, Mr. Malfoy.” She raised her head to look him in the eye. “I know you’ve had your best people looking for him for almost three years and found not one trace.”

“Then what makes you think you can find him?” Lucius leaned forward, the strain and anxiety within him apparent as his fingers curled into the wood surface. “No residual magic, no locating charm has been able to place him.”

Narcissa, standing next to her seated husband, placed a hand on Lucius’ shoulder to keep him from lunging across the desk. “You must understand, Miss Granger,” she said, her tone placating, “that these past four years have been quite… stressful.”

* * *

Stressful was hardly the word for what the Malfoys had endured after the war. The only formal charge levied against them had been that of accessory and abetting, for while Lucius had supported the Dark Lord he’d been little more than an oft-kicked servant within his own home for nearly two years during Voldemort’s campaign. That fact, combined with the family’s abrupt about-face of loyalties at the last minute and Narcissa’s choice to lie to the Dark Lord about Harry’s condition, spared the Malfoys time in Azkaban and they’d all been pardoned. 

But where the Ministry was willing to grant mercy, the public was not. Most of it boiled down to ‘polite isolation’ just short of outright ostracism by the Wizarding world. They were snubbed by the general populace and questioned extensively if they wished to purchase goods of any sort and as to the purpose for which they intended to use said item, even common everyday items such as catmint or acanthus. Their credit was no longer valid at any business and for most transactions they were required to pay with Galleons up front and in full. For such a proud family, Hermione knew this form of castigation was a particularly painful blow. 

When the Malfoys complained about their treatment to the Ministry, their cries fell on deaf ears, or worse, on ears whose owners held bitter grievances against one or all of the traitorous family. If anyone from the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol bothered to make an appearance during a ‘disagreement’ involving the pure-blood family, any Malfoy present was automatically assumed to be the instigator regardless of the facts of the matter. Hermione had heard that it happened frequently, though she’d personally witnessed it only once. 

Hermione had been deeply entrenched in her criminal law studies at Université Magique d’Avignon, and as part of her training, she’d spent a month shadowing several members of the Wizengamot. It had been just shy of six months after Voldemort’s demise and paranoia was still rampant throughout the Wizarding community. Death Eaters and their families were mercilessly prosecuted, with punishment swiftly meted out, whether it was just or not. Trials were brief and concise, and while this appealed to her logical side, Hermione’s sense of objectivity and fairness suffered greatly. Day after day, she watched as former classmates and their parents were marched before the high court, given their sentence, and shuttled off behind closed doors, sometimes never to be seen again. Occasionally, Lucius Malfoy would be brought forth to give testimony against a wizard or witch. Even Draco had appeared three times, looking little better than a shadow of a wizard with a Dementor as a companion, as he gave testimony against his fellow Slytherins. He described Gregory Goyle’s involvement in the Battle of Hogwarts and the consequent loss of Vincent Crabbe, the indifference of Blaise Zabini (which ultimately saved Zabini, and the manipulations of a grasping and desperate Pansy Parkinson. 

Crabbe Sr. was sentenced to life in Azkaban, while his son was made a virtual pauper when the Ministry seized their Gringotts account, and banished from England. Zabini was also made to pay restitution and reparations, but his mother had amassed so much wealth through her multiple marriages (and subsequent widowhood) that the amount barely made a dent in their overall capital. Pansy Parkinson didn’t fare quite as well, especially when the court was told of her betrayal in offering up Harry Potter to the Dark Lord. In an ironic move, the Wizengamot decided to turn her into the thing she most hated: a Muggle. She was stripped of her magic and wand, and her memory of the Wizarding world erased. Hermione had watched as Pansy screamed in protest, begging Draco—who sat stone-faced and cold on the witness stand—to intercede on her behalf. Furious at his blatant refusal to act, she was quickly removed from the courtroom before she could summon a non-verbal hex or curse; Hermione had felt an odd pang in her chest when she observed Draco close his eyes as the door slammed shut on his ex-girlfriend. 

A few months later, as she was making her way to Gringotts, she’d passed Sugarplum’s Sweet Shop… and spied a very flustered looking Draco Malfoy inside. Morbid curiosity pressed her to investigate, and as soon as she opened the door to the shop, she was assaulted by an irate voice booming in Draco’s direction. 

“I’ll not have your kind sullying my business with your filthy presence; you take it elsewhere, sharpish!”

Hermione could see the muscle tic in his clenched jaw as Draco stood silent and resolute while the owner berated him.

“I think your ears have had too many viper tongues whispering in them, you venomous, ill-bred lack-wit! Out, I say!”

Draco stood rooted to the spot, barely twitching when some of the owner’s spittle landed on his flushed cheek. “I only wish to purchase some Ice Mice, sir. For my mother.”

“That amoral slag? I’d sooner give her a taste of my—”

“Mr. Maquignon!” Hermione interrupted, sure that another vile insult was about to be thrown at Draco. 

The owner had the grace to look sheepish at her rebuke, though he threw Draco another nasty glance. “My apologies, Miss Granger. I didn’t know you were in the shop.”

She arched her brow. “I don’t think it’s me you should be apologising to.” She nodded in Draco’s direction.

Mr. Maquignon stared at her, nonplussed. “But he’s a Death Eater, Miss Granger. Not worthy of—”

“Of the despicable names you were hurling at him for merely wanting to purchase sweets for his mother? I agree.” Hermione crossed her arms and glared at the owner. “The courts have pardoned the Malfoy family, Mr. Maquignon, and whether you agree or not, as a respectable businessman, it behooves you to show courtesy to all your customers without prejudice.”

He blinked several times, as if trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Hermione was admonishing him for showing a former Death Eater harsh treatment, then nodded curtly. “Of course, Miss Granger. You’re right.”

She watched as the portly wizard scurried away, rummage through a container, hastily package the requested item and return to press the sweets into her hand. 

“They’re not for me, they’re for…” She trailed off when she noticed Draco was gone. Huffing in exasperation, she paid Mr. Maquignon and left in search of Malfoy.

She spied him down the street to her right, heading towards Gringotts, moving quickly and conspicuously avoiding any contact with other people. She trailed him up the cobblestone road until he turned right and disappeared between the buildings housing Madam Malkin’s and Flourish & Blotts. Though she knew it was foolhardy on her part, she left her wand sheathed and followed him into the shadowed alley, only to be yanked aside into a dark alcove and shoved up against a brick wall, a hand covering her mouth.

“The Granger Crusade a little low on charity cases this month?” Draco bit out, eyes flashing. 

She had the irrational urge to bite his palm where it pressed against her mouth. Instead, her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared.

Draco drew closer, almost nose-to-nose. “I don’t need your pity, Granger!” he whispered harshly. “If you’re trying to score points for the Ministry, I’d say you just lost a few.” He removed his hand, though she could see he was hesitant to do so.

“I don’t pity you, Draco Malfoy,” she snorted. “You deserve everything you got, many times over, for the pain you inflicted through the years.”

He stared at her, grey eyes intense and suddenly curious. “Then why did you stop Maquignon from tossing me out?”

She looked away from his gaze. “I don’t know.” 

Draco laughed bitterly. “The great Know-It-All doesn’t know something? Unlikely. Try again.”

Truly, she didn’t; it had been an instinctive reaction to an injustice. “Honestly, I don’t know. And now I’m regretting it, if this is how you treat people who try to help you.”

The beginning of a sneer was curling his upper lip as he stepped away. “I don’t need your help.”

“Clearly,” she snapped. 

“It’s not like I wasn’t expecting that rancid little git to insult me.” 

“Why didn’t you just go to Honeydukes in Hogsmeade if you knew this was the reaction you’d get in Diagon Alley?”

Draco angled his head, studying her. “Are you really that ignorant? None of us can get within a hundred kilometres of Hogsmeade.”

She frowned. Had she missed something regarding their pardon? There hadn’t been any restrictions that she’d recalled. “Why not? What’s to prevent you from—”

“The first time Father and I tried to approach the village, I was hexed by Madam Rosmerta and Father barely got me to St Mungo’s in time. The second time we entered the village, we were under a Glamour. We got as far as the Hog’s Head Tavern before Dumbledore’s brother caught and bound us. Then he turned us over to the less-than-friendly residents of Hogsmeade and laughed as we were stripped of our clothing and lashed to a pillar in front of The Three Broomsticks for everyone to see. And throw things at.” A ruddy flush made its way up Draco’s neck and into his cheeks. “We haven’t tried again. I don’t fancy having to see my father reduced to silent tears because his son is being pelted by rubbish and unable to stop it.”

Her eyes widened. “Why on earth didn’t you defend yourselves? You had wands!”

Draco looked ready to slap her for saying such a stupid thing. “Don’t you get it, Granger?” He snorted and shook his head. “No, of course you don’t. Miss Holier-than-thou couldn’t fathom that the Ministry was still as corrupt as it was ten years ago, not with Shacklebolt in charge.”

“He’s made great advances in—”

“Spare me the lecture!” Draco’s lips thinned. “There were two Aurors there that day in Hogsmeade. Two. And they never lifted a finger, except to stop a villager from getting creative with a burning hex and branding me a traitor.” His fists clenched and unclenched, his body rigid. “All this was done to torture my father, through me. The first and last time we tried to defend ourselves, an Auror confiscated our wands and threatened to snap them if we cast any spell in public, including a Shield Charm. If either of us had retaliated, we would’ve been incarcerated in the blink of an eye because I know Father would’ve lost what sanity he had and attacked the Auror. We have no recourse—we can’t lift our wands against anyone. So don’t tell me about how we’re on the brink of some utopian society, the cure-all to our world’s problems. You’re too intelligent to buy that line of shite.”

Hermione was equally appalled at the treatment of the Malfoys and taken aback by Draco’s backhanded compliment. “I’m not blind, Draco,” she said quietly. “I know the measure of a society can be judged by how they treat their prisoners. The Dementors are a thing of the past now, and that’s why I have to hope that the system will only continue to improve. What you and your family have suffered in the interim is unconscionable—you were pardoned, and that should be the last of it. But I know that not everyone sees it that way. I know there are many wizards and witches with long memories and even deeper grudges around every corner, just waiting for you and your family to slip up. I just hadn’t realised it had become this intolerable.”

She could practically see Draco’s hackles rise. “We don’t need your pity or charity!”

Her brow arched. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” She withdrew from her pocket the package Mr. Maquignon had given her and handed it to Draco. “You owe me five Galleons and three Knuts.”

Draco stared at the brown parcel for several moments before snatching it. He extracted the specified amount from the pocket of this robes and placed it in her outstretched palm. “We’re even, then.”

She smirked. “Not by a long shot. I figure you have about seven years’ worth of annoying behaviour to make up for.”

The small smile that crept across his features sent a tendril of warmth through her chest that she hadn’t felt in years. “It’s to be hard labour, then?”

“Oh, truly back-breaking. You might even rethink a cell in Azkaban after the first week.” 

“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t,” he muttered. 

She sniffed with disdain and tossed aside one particularly annoying lock of frizzy hair. “You’re such a pessimist. It’s not like I’m going to have you scrubbing the entirety of the Weasley Burrow as restitution. Even I’m not that sadistic.”

Draco’s burst of laughter caught her off guard. “I don’t know about that, Granger. I’ve always heard told that it’s the prim, quiet ones that are the most… deviant.”

She huffed in exasperation, unsure whether to be embarrassed by his insinuation or thrilled by it. Seized by momentary insanity, she retorted, “Well, maybe we’ll see if you’re up to the challenge of finding out.”

A flash of heat lit his eyes and then was quenched almost immediately. “And what do Saints Potter and Weaselbee have to say about all this?”

She frowned. “Why would Harry and Ron have anything to do with my career or how I chose to conduct my life?”

“Because they’re usually attached to you, one at each hip. I’m surprised you don’t have to consult them when you need to go to the loo.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m my own person, thank you very much!” she fumed. She knew the general public assumed that they all three came as a package deal, but she would have expected Draco to know better. “I make my own decisions as to what’s right for me. Most of the time, our goals have been in line with one another’s, but ultimately it’s my own life I need to worry about, not theirs. Not anymore.”

“Getting a bit claustrophobic, were you?”

The words were sarcastic but the tone was teasing, and Hermione gave him a rueful smile. “You have no bloody idea!” She laughed. “Auror training has been a godsend—they’re both so exhausted by the end of the day they just go home and sack out. I haven’t spoken to them properly in a fortnight.” 

Draco was poised to retort, but froze at the sound of approaching footsteps, listening to them come close to the mouth of the alley then fade away. He quickly pocketed the package and drew his cloak tighter around himself. He met her eyes briefly, hesitated a moment, then said, “I can usually be found at the Bridge Tea Rooms in Bradford-on-Avon. It’s… safer there.” 

She wanted to say more, to reassure him that everything would turn out all right in the end, but that wasn’t necessarily true and there was no use in lying to him. So, she simply nodded and watched him dissolve into the shadows, remembering how hard it had been to track him during their Hogwarts years. Perhaps Professor Snape had impressed upon him the need to conceal his presence in the face of such danger, for she was sure the Ministry would be of little help.

So had begun weeks of what Hermione thought of as a unique sort of barter system. Should the Malfoys require something that they couldn’t obtain through the usual means of Floo or Apparating, she would receive an Owl from Draco asking her to meet him at the Tea Rooms. From there, she would accompany him on his designated task, her presence ensuring he received no censure stronger than a heated glance or a haughty sneer. For once, her fame served a useful purpose. In return, he would verbally spar with her on topics of criminal law for her studies, or show her where the true needs in their society were, such as those in Knockturn Alley. He even provided company for dinner or the theatre on the rare occasion she took a break from her studies.

Of course, Harry and Ron eventually found out. It had resulted in raised voices, near-insults, angry questioning of loyalties (which irritated Hermione to no end—surely they both knew her well enough by now for that to be ridiculous?) and, most predictably, Ron’s jealousy. One of the reasons Hermione loved Harry dearly was that eventually he could be reasoned with, especially when he was presented with all the facts—a skill she guessed stemmed from his years of being left out of the loop on most everything of importance. Ron, on the other hand, felt things deeply, emotionally, and sometimes nothing could heal wounds inflicted on him, even years later. There was also the matter of his stubborn pride. For the most part, Hermione accepted this as just a facet of his personality. But when he became bull-headed, as he had regarding Malfoy, he became intolerably sullen. A year older, hopefully wiser, and perhaps quite a bit more cynical, she knew she’d changed from the girl they’d known at the end of the war. Ron didn’t seem to like the ‘new’ Hermione, didn’t want her to be independent. She wondered occasionally at the influence of Molly in his character and what example she’d impressed upon him as to the role of a ‘decent witch’. Hermione had an inkling that whatever it was, it might not be what she’d planned for her life, and trying to conform to Ron’s idea of the perfect partner seemed overwhelming. 

Though Harry eventually understood what Hermione was trying to accomplish with Malfoy, Ron’s view was more rigid, a clear line drawn between right and wrong, black and white—there was no room for maybe, for shades of grey. Hermione had never been that way, and she had to wonder why she’d tried to pour herself into a mould she knew would never fit her, even on her best days. One evening when Ron’s accusations reduced her to tears, Harry took him aside to admonish him and she left, slamming the door on the insults trailing her out into the cool night air. Her correspondence with Ron ceased after that, though Harry still kept in contact through the odd night at the Leaky Cauldron. She didn’t ask about Ron and Harry never mentioned him. 

Surprisingly, during this time Draco had proved a great comfort to her. He commiserated on the issue of friends who wanted things that one wouldn’t (or couldn’t) commit to. She told him of her parents, who were still somewhere in Australia with no knowledge of the daughter they’d left behind to fight a war. He commended her bravery, saying had he been forced to Obliviate his parents to keep them safe, he would’ve most assuredly failed. She pointed out that Lucius likely would have found some way to counter the spell, even though his wand had been broken. Draco touched on the living hell that had been his life while the Dark Lord was in residence at the Manor, how his father still wasn’t himself and his mother was trying her best to keep everyone sane, though some days it was touch and go. Hermione assured him that any effort to keep living wasn’t an exercise in futility, and that she could see great potential for his family because Lucius had ultimately chosen them over Voldemort.

Then, one night, Draco had kissed her. It wasn’t earth-shattering or even that passionate – merely a soft lingering press of lips on her cheek, but it had filled her stomach with butterflies. When he pulled away, he nodded once, said thank you and then departed for home. Usually when they parted, she knew she would see him again within a day or two. But as she had watched him leave that evening, she had a premonition that it would be the last time, and it made her want to call him back to her, ask him to stay.

But she kept silent, swallowing the feeling of loneliness that threatened to drown her. 

That had been three years ago… and no one had seen Draco Malfoy since.

* * *

The rumours had been rampant regarding his disappearance, ranging from being kidnapped in retaliation to having simply grown tired of his family and their lot, and deciding to leave everything behind. In the years since Draco had vanished, his parents had followed every lead that seemed even remotely promising, but each trail ended in nothing. The Ministry even became involved after two months, only to fail just as miserably as other efforts. Public outcry about wasting resources on finding a Malfoy forced Shacklebolt to call off the Ministry’s search eight months later. Hermione had tried all the while to search for Draco as part of her duties in the Investigation Department of the Auror Office, but her efforts were hindered at every turn by Ministry politics and red tape. She’d continued after the Ministry had officially closed the case, but eventually was told to cease and desist by Minister Shacklebolt himself, or else look for a new position. Once again, there was no justice for the Malfoys.

That had been almost two years ago, when Hermione was still new in her position and acquiesced to the demands of her superiors in order to climb the ladder to where she could actually make a difference. Now, being the head of the Investigation Department in the Auror Office, she had resources at her disposal and would do whatever it took to find Draco, Ministry approval or not. Sitting before Lucius and Narcissa, she felt she could do no less than Draco had done for his parents in that year following the war. 

“I need something personal of his, anything that he came into contact with before he disappeared,” she said, watching Lucius’ shadowed face. 

He snorted. “And how will that help, hmm?” He arched his brow. “Numerous talented individuals have searched his things, Miss Granger. Proclaimed psychics, private investigators, the authorities, even Aurors, and not one of them have produced anything remotely helpful.”

“Lucius,” Narcissa gently reprimanded. “Let me speak with Miss Granger. Alone.”

Her tone brooked no argument, so Lucius stood, glared at Hermione for a few seconds, then left. 

Narcissa moved around the desk and perched on the edge to study her. “Draco spoke of you often,” Narcissa mused. “You helped him that year. Helped us. Why?”

Hermione had not been prepared for this question, but she only hesitated a moment. “It was the right thing to do.”

Narcissa narrowed her gaze. “The general public thought our ostracism, even persecution, was justified.”

“Most sheep are idiots, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to join them as they stumble over a cliff,” Hermione retorted, earning a small laugh from Narcissa. “The Ministry has turned a blind eye to your situation, permitting an environment similar to the one the Dark Lord would’ve created but in reverse.” Hermione leaned forward, passion in her tone. “There is _never_ a just reason to ostracise a group of people, or even a single person, just because their views don’t follow your own. To prevail over tyranny is one thing, but discrimination for the sake of exclusion and control is abhorrent.” 

Narcissa gave her a fond smile. “No wonder you went into law. You would’ve been wasted in politics.” She went to a carved wooden chest in the corner, opened it, and withdrew an item. “Draco often handled his prefect badge.” She placed it in Hermione’s palm. “It’s not much, but I’m certain it would’ve been the last thing he touched before he…” Narcissa pursed her lips. “Before he disappeared.”

Hermione studied the badge, so much like the one she’d received in their fifth year. “Thank you, Mrs Malfoy. This will help.” She rose and made to leave, but was stopped by Narcissa’s next words.

“Draco thought a great deal of you, Hermione,” Narcissa said haltingly. “He believed in you. Don’t let him down.”

Biting her bottom lip to keep the tears prickling her eyes at bay, she said nothing until she’d gained control over her emotions. “I won’t.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You look like you could use something stronger than a Butterbeer.”

Hermione glowered at Harry for a moment, then closed her eyes and let her head drop to the back of the bench with a thunk. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Search going well, I take it?”

She raised her head a little to look at him through barely open lids. “Since when do you care?”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s important to you, hence I care.”

“Sorry,” she said, and released a tension-filled breath. “That was uncalled for. This case is more difficult than I anticipated.”

“Let me guess. You’re not sleeping, barely eating, always have your nose stuck in a book, and are constantly irritating the right people at the worst possible time,” Harry theorised, half grinning.

She gave him a weary smile. “Harry Potter, you know me all too well.”

He shrugged. “I just know your methods; it’s the only way we survived, you know.”

She looked away and fiddled with the coaster underneath her chilled bottle of Belvoir Elderflower Pressé, remembering the frenetic research she’d done during that time. How exhausted they all had been on any given day, how oppressive the atmosphere had grown with each step forward. Though it was always in their memories, the three of them rarely spoke of their time traipsing across the land in an effort to avoid detection. It had been a bonding experience, yes, but the darker times nearly engulfed the few moments of levity. The Horcrux they’d carried with them had weighed so heavily upon them all; at one point, she’d despaired of destroying it before it killed them. It had changed them, transformed them. Hermione had hated the days when either Ron or Harry would be tasked with the burden of carrying it, but she hadn’t anticipated the absolute and crushing oppression that would fall upon her when she was designated to wear it. It had made her feel as if she were participating in a fool’s errand, that she should just lie down and die, give up, subjugate herself to the overwhelming cruelty she saw no way of defeating. She’d been heartily glad to be rid of the locket at the end of the day and had scrubbed herself until her skin was raw before returning to their camp. 

Bad as it had been for her, how much worse were the days when one of the boys had worn it. She didn’t know which she’d dreaded most: Ron’s sunken and darkened features, sullen behaviour and outright hostility, or Harry’s intense, watchful gleam in his eyes as he studied her movements, and the almost brutal glee he took in pushing Ron into arguments. When the two boys returned from the pond that winter’s night, wet and bedraggled, she’d noticed Ron’s shaken and haunted look. When she’d asked about the Horcrux, Harry just shook his head and told her it was destroyed. Many times in the following days she’d thought to ask Ron what happened, but one thing or another always interrupted her and she’d soon forgotten. Now, at this point in their lives, there was no point in asking how it had been destroyed... and she’d a feeling the answer would do little to soothe her worries. 

“Still in there?”

Hermione blinked and then focused on her best friend. “Sorry. Just…”

“Yeah.” Harry took a sip of his Butterbeer. “So you’re stuck. Talk me through it. What’ve you tried so far?”

“What _haven’t_ I tried?” she said. “I used Malfoy’s prefect badge with Object Psychometry, but the residual memory was too weak, and the loop image I saw indicated nothing more than casual admiration. There’s no Fidelius Charm in place. No _Finite Incantatem_ , or more specifically, nothing within a certain radius that responded to the spell. No _Passus Locus_ Draco, Point Me, or Scrying. None of the revelation, discernment, or retrieval spells have worked— _Adgnitus, Deprendere, Dignoscere, Cretus, Conspexi_ —I’ve checked for them all, and there’s nothing, although none of these revealed anything about my parents whereabouts, either. No magical signature, no use of his wand, no one that remotely resembles him in the magical world. Circe, I even consulted Trelawney for a Divination spell that might show his location.”

Harry’s eyes widened in mock shock. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, apparently.”

“It wasn’t worth the headache from the incense,” she muttered. “I think she was burning cannabis, because when I left, I was so ravenous I went straight home, made a batch of brownies and ate them all within two hours.”

He snorted. “Achieve any epiphanies while tucking into scrummy goodness?”

“Shut up,” she grumbled. “And no. I was too fixated on satisfying my hunger to care.”

Harry sipped his drink thoughtfully. “Have you thought about the Muggle world?”

Hermione had been rubbing her eyes but stopped at Harry’s words. “A Malfoy in the Muggle world?” She was about to dismiss the notion out of hand—as little as the Malfoys cared for Muggles, they would hardly be likely to hide amongst them... unless they were forced to. She sat up. “Well, that would certainly account for our inability to find Draco—we’ve been looking in the wrong places.”

Harry nodded. “I use Locator spells all the time as an Auror—it’s one of our most routine pieces of spell-work. Nothing short of an Abjuration Charm keeps the caster from learning the exact location of an individual or object.”

“But then I would’ve detected the spell surrounding him.”

“Not if he wasn’t the one who cast it.”

She chewed on her bottom lip. “So, you’re saying someone cast a spell on him three years ago to hide him from the Wizarding world… and he just went along with the idea?”

“I have no clue,” Harry said quietly. “Maybe he was tired from all the negative attention he and his family were receiving and he asked someone to fix it so that no one could find him.”

“No,” Hermione said with a shake of her head. “Draco was too invested in his family to just run away like that.”

“He wasn’t the most courageous of wizards, Hermione,” Harry reminded her. 

She narrowed her eyes. “You know all too well what having Voldemort around was like, Harry. In fact, you know better than anyone, seeing as he was in your head for most of your life. Yes, Draco was a narcissistic, spiteful prat for the whole of our years at Hogwarts, but having your parents’ lives threatened on a daily basis if you don’t perform your given task kind of limits your options. Draco’s a product of his environment—he was spoiled by his parents and raised to believe those of us who weren’t pure-blood were worth less than dirt. We’re not born with hate; it’s taught to us by the ones we love most, the ones we trust to keep us safe. I’m sure he was often told glorious tales of Death Eaters reigning supreme over Muggles and Muggle-borns. Yet when those tales became harsh reality, and he was forced to take the Dark Mark, I truly think Draco began to change. It was one thing to bully us at school, but doling out low-level antagonism to evolve into a full-fledged assassin overnight can make a person… well, mental. In all honesty, I don’t think I could’ve survived as long as he did with the Dark Lord constantly watching me and a wand pointed at my parents should I stumble.”

Harry studied her intently. “You admire him.”

She waved his suspicions away. “I respect that he had to do unpleasant things to keep himself and his parents alive.”

“Such as, killing Dumbledore?”

“ _You_ told me he hesitated, that he eventually lowered his wand, and that’s when Professor Snape stepped in! Which is it, Harry—did he kill him or not? You can’t have it both ways.”

Harry pursed his lips, fingers clenched around his pint glass. “I don’t understand you sometimes, Hermione. He was clearly _going_ to kill Dumbledore. The only reason he didn’t is because Snape did it for him. In my book, Draco’s just as guilty, even if he didn’t cast the spell.”

“You need to get a different book, then.” Her irritation lessened at the hurt look he gave at her harsh words. “Professor Snape was following Dumbledore’s orders, in memory of your mother and to protect you. Draco was following Voldemort’s orders to protect his loved ones as well. Other than the person issuing the command, what is the difference in motivation?” 

Harry gave her a sullen expression worthy of Ron. 

She sighed. “Love is powerful, Harry. It can drive someone insane and in the next breath, bring perfect clarity of vision. It’s extremely difficult to understand, yet the simplest of concepts. Your mother’s love has saved your life many times, and yet you’re reluctant to embrace love fully.”

“Almost everyone I’ve ever loved was taken from me,” Harry whispered in a ragged and pained voice. “You’d think twice about endangering someone, too.”

“Probably,” she agreed. She grabbed his free hand and held it tight. “But eventually, I’d think a third time and that’s when something wonderful might happen.”

He gave her a heart-breaking smile and squeezed her hand in return. After taking another sip of his Butterbeer, he glanced to both sides of their table before leaning forward. “I heard something the other day that I probably shouldn’t have,” he said softly.

Her eyebrows rose into her frizzy hairline. “Should you be telling me this?”

“Who else would I tell? Ron? The whole of Diagon Alley would know within a few minutes.” Harry cast a Muffliato Charm and lowered his voice even more. “I was on my way back from the courtroom on Level Ten when I passed Caradoc Philemon entering Level Nine.”

“Caradoc Philemon, the Unspeakable?”

Harry nodded. “The one assigned to the Love Room.”

Hermione stiffened and looked around, anxious to make sure no one was near enough to hear. “That’s an Ever-Locked Room, Harry! Any unauthorized person who enters will be disintegrated by a _Repello Inimicum_ spell.”

“I know,” Harry said with a grimace. “That’s how we lost Declan Forbes last year. Anyway, Caradoc was muttering to himself about how a little over a litre of something had gone missing.”

She frowned. “A litre of what?”

“I don’t know. The door closed behind him before I could hear any more. But given that he works in the Love Room...” 

Hermione’s eyes widened at Harry’s implication. “A litre… in the Love Room… fluid litre…” She swallowed nervously. “It’s said there’s a large fountain of Amortentia in the middle of the chamber.”

Harry nodded grimly. “Right. What I can’t figure out is why someone would want that much of it, though. A tiny bit is all you need—look at how barmy it made Ron, and that was just a thimbleful.”

“I imagine it’s used for testing, or as a control for experiments. Still, if a litre is missing, that means someone has stolen it from an Ever-Locked Room.”

Harry shifted uneasily in his chair. “Caradoc replaced Calvin Dougherty three years ago.”

“Where’s Dougherty now?”

“I don’t know. Where do Unspeakables go when they’re sacked?”

Hermione didn’t even want to contemplate that. “No place good, I wager. Usually they die in the line of service.” She tapped her thumb against her chin thoughtfully. “If we assume the theft happened three years ago, that was probably the reason for Dougherty’s replacement. I don’t see the Ministry just forgiving either the perpetrator or the wizard that turned a blind eye and let it occur. But if that’s the case, why is Caradoc muttering about it still?”

“Replacements often have to clean up the messes of previous employees,” Harry grumbled. “I speak from experience.”

“Hmm,” Hermione agreed. “So, Caradoc’s investigating the disappearance of a litre of Amortentia, which is about the size of a large thermos.” She calculated the timeframe. “Harry, if we’re right, then the litre went missing around the time Draco disappeared.”

“No. Just… no, to whatever you’re thinking,” Harry denied, shaking his head. “Who would be desperate enough to steal that much Amortentia to ensnare Draco Malfoy?”

Hermione grabbed her handbag and rose swiftly from her seat. “Someone who is about to run out of the potion that keeps him at their side.”

* * *

A few days after she rushed out of her long-standing drinks date with Harry, Hermione was studying the long-term effects of a Love potion (the case of Tom Riddle’s father being the basis of possible outcomes) in her office, when a lavender Interdepartmental memo landed in her hair, barely missing her left eye. She was about to toss it in her ‘to read’ bin, but then she noticed it bore the seal of the Minister and so opened it, wondering if he was going to ask her to once again cease her investigation.

_Head Investigator Granger,_

_As you are aware, previous efforts to locate Draco Malfoy have resulted in few, if any clues, and none that have been brought to the Ministry’s attention in the interim._

_As Minister, I am tasked with bringing order to the chaos that Voldemort’s reign forced upon the Wizarding world. When I closed the investigation over a year ago, I did not enter into that decision lightly, however you may have interpreted my actions at the time. In politics, one must adhere to the principle of altruism, rather than ethical egoism, if one wishes to accomplish anything of merit while in office. Simply, I did not have the luxury to further your previous investigation due to public pressure. The mood and opinions of the populace at the time were volatile; a misstep at that juncture would have been catastrophic._

_Equilibrium has been tentatively restored, however, allowing for more leeway with regards to your prior investigation. As stated above, there has been no further information provided that hints at Malfoy’s whereabouts, until now._

_Mrs Shannon Farley—a Squib, and owner of the St James Guesthouse in Lewisham—sent an owl, indicating there was a recent Muggle news report regarding a dishevelled young man, early twenties and bearing the likeness of Draco Malfoy, who collapsed on the pavement in front of the Royal London Hospital. The reports list him as ‘John Doe’ because he was unconscious and carried no identification on his person._

_This is the only information I can give you at the moment, Miss Granger—I suggest you visit the Royal London Hospital tonight._

_Kingsley Shacklebolt_

_Minister for Magic_

Hermione, overcome with hope for the first time in ages, stashed the memo in her beaded bag and headed out the door to use the visitor’s entrance to the London streets above. Before stepping into the phone booth lift, she waved her wand over her clothes, changing them from the light fabric of Ministry robes to something more Muggle-friendly that took into account the spring chill of the season. By the time she arrived at the top, Hermione was wearing a pair of faded denims, dark brown riding boots, a mauve jersey-knit shirt and a navy pea coat. When she exited the red booth, she headed in the direction of Whitechapel Road.

* * *

Hermione arrived at the Royal London Hospital thirty minutes later to investigate the sudden appearance of ‘John Doe’.

But there was a problem—the patient was gone.

Hadn’t the news report just aired on the telly that afternoon? How could an unconscious person vanish in that amount of time? Frustration made her temper flare, and she led one of the physicians behind a draped area to cast a Compulsion Spell so he would tell her the whereabouts of the mysterious man. 

According to the A&E physician, ‘John Doe’ was unconscious and looked to have been involved in an altercation. Just as they were about to attend to a gash on his scalp, he’d revived and rambled on about magic and wizards—so much so that the Muggle doctors quickly decided he should be sectioned. When they tried to restrain him for the transfer to another facility, ‘John Doe’ had become violent and they’d given him several injections of a highly potent anti-psychotic which dulled the senses and cognitive functions to almost nil. No further information was available until after the admission to the other hospital, which wouldn’t be until later that evening. 

Once she copied the address of the psychiatric hospital, she Apparated to a position near a supply shed on Blackheath Hill, on the outskirts of London. As soon as her disorientation eased (she’d never got over the nauseating feeling like she was being sucked through a tube), she cast a Disillusionment Charm to hide her presence, and started off across the road.

* * *

The Tyler Ward Unit at Cygnet Wing Blackheath specialised in male psychiatric intensive care for individuals in acute psychiatric distress, of which Draco Malfoy was deemed a candidate for their services. The evening shadows had settled in by the time the ambulance carrying ‘John Doe’ arrived, checked in at the gate, ushered the patient through to the entrance and turned him over to the staff at Cygnet Wing. Hermione didn’t follow the transport right away; there was an uneasy feeling crawling up her spine the moment she stepped towards the security gate. The soft electric hum of the mechanism barring intruders played havoc with her magic, so she removed the charm, backed away and went around to the east wing of the facility’s campus, which was heavily wooded, and made her way along the treeline until she reached an emergency exit door. After casting another Disillusionment Charm, she disabled the punch-key pad, slipped into the darkened corridor and began searching for the hospital’s new guest. 

A tinny voice emanating from an overhead intercom system requested assistance in the Meridian Unit, reminding Hermione that she was in an environment best suited for those in need of the Janus Thickey Ward of St Mungo’s. The Tyler Ward was on the second floor, so she climbed the steps in a deserted stairwell and hoped Draco’s room would be close by. 

Once on the floor, she quietly followed the green line painted half-way down the corridor walls, past locked doors, looking into each room to see if it held Draco. When she came to the second to last door in that corridor, she stopped, cast an _Alohamora_ to open the lock, and moved to study the patient who looked familiar.

The moment streetlight shone through the window and illuminated ‘John Doe’s’ face, all doubt had been erased. Draco Malfoy was strapped down to a gurney, unconscious and drugged out of his mind. Hermione spied the small gash earlier noted by the A&E staff at Royal London, but apparently no one had been able to get near him to attend to it. The dried blood coated strands, making them clump together, the area swollen. She whispered a quick _Episkey_ to heal the laceration, noticing that even after the cut was closed, his hair, which had once shone like bright winter sunlight, was now a lifeless dirty blond, plastered to his head by a sheen of sweat. He was covered only by a patient gown that fell to the middle of his thighs, a flimsy-looking bed sheet shoved to the end of the mattress—a victim of his struggles—so she pulled the cover over him to ward off the chill. His wrists and ankles were manacled with heavy leather cuffs; the chafing on his wrists suggested he’d been wearing them for a while. 

She let the Disillusionment Charm dissipate and picked up the chart on the end of Draco’s bed, flipping through the notes and physicians’ orders. He’d been kept sedated for the entirety of his transfer. Apparently, the hospital staff had tried to revive him upon his arrival, while she’d been determining the best way to gain access to the facility. Unfortunately, he’d lashed out at the orderlies by biting and kicking, and so had been sedated again for his and the staff’s safety. 

Feeling the strain of the day catch up to her, Hermione dragged one of the cushioned chairs near Draco’s bed and sat down, careful not to make any noise lest the other occupant awaken. The room was nondescript: beige walls, wood flooring, an empty desk and armoire, and a lone window with ghastly plaid drapes—nothing gave away the identity of the figure lying on the bed. 

It was nearing midnight when a rustle of sheets made her look up from the paperwork to see if Draco was awake. His eyes were still closed, but he shifted to the right, towards the window that showed silhouettes of trees dappling the streetlight, and moaned lightly. Glancing at the notes again, Hermione realised he was to be given another dose of medication at shift change, so she quickly cast another Disillusionment Charm to hide herself from hospital staff. 

As if on cue, a burly male nurse opened the door slowly and closed it quietly behind him. Passing by the invisible Hermione, he set down the tray he was carrying on the bedside table then snapped on a pair of Nitrile gloves. He took out a syringe, pulled off the plastic cap that covered the needle with his teeth, jabbed the needle into Draco’s arm, and slowly depressed the plunger to deliver the liquid oblivion. 

“There you go, Princess,” the nurse whispered, reaching out a finger to caress the unconscious Draco’s lower lip. “A mouth like yours ought to be wrapped around a man’s cock.” 

Hermione watched, appalled, as the nurse began to palm the erection which was clearly visible beneath his uniform. She couldn’t allow Draco to be violated further, even if it meant exposing her presence. 

“ _Confundo_ ,” she whispered, aiming her wand towards the would-be perpetrator. 

The man paused in his actions, looked around in several directions (including where Hermione was sitting) and then back at Draco. He frowned in puzzlement, then shuffled to the door and out of the room, leaving the door wide open. 

Hermione ceased the Disillusionment Charm, quickly rose and closed the door, then made her way to Draco’s bedside. “You owe me several years’ worth of demeaning tasks, Draco Malfoy,” she muttered. “ _Lumos_.” She lifted one of his eyelids to see if there was any reaction to the light. None. “Bugger.”

She unbuckled the leather straps on his ankles and then his wrists. As the last cuff dropped to swing free on its strap, long, nimble fingers suddenly grasped her wrist tightly, squeezing so hard she winced in pain. Glancing down, she noted both of Draco’s eyes were open and fixed on her. “Malfoy?” she whispered.

Draco neither acknowledged her nor blinked, and Hermione soon began to feel unnerved by his sightless stare. The two of them stayed frozen in this tableau for several minutes. She was hesitant to cast a spell on Draco in this state—without knowing what spells or potions they’d used on him, anything she did was liable to bring about unknown results.

“Draco, can you hear me?” she asked softly.

A whimper, followed by a croaking groan. “Help me!” His eyes slowly closed and his grip slackened.

“Draco? Draco!” She touched his sweat-drenched face and found that his skin was burning. “Oh, gods, what have they done to you?”

And that’s when it hit her—someone had purposely done this to Malfoy, had _caused_ him to be in this condition, had stolen him away from the Wizarding world for their own nefarious reasons. Since that ‘someone’ was as yet unidentified, they could very well be monitoring her magical trace and therefore her every move. That meant she couldn’t cast a _Rennervate_ on Draco to make him lucid enough so they could leave. “Bloody hell.” 

It was in times like these that she was truly grateful for her Muggle heritage and resourcefulness. She peeked out the door of Draco’s room and, seeing no one in the corridor, quickly made her way down the hallway, checking doors as she went to see if they were locked. The fifth door on the left opened to reveal exactly what she was looking for: a staff locker room. She slipped inside and found a hospital uniform and a doctor’s coat. She bundled up her own clothing into her beaded bag, donned the uniform and coat, and proceeded to make her way back to Malfoy’s room, hoping no one glanced at her boots. 

Draco hadn’t regained consciousness, for which Hermione was thankful; if he were awake it would complicate the next step in her plan to remove him from the facility. She raised the gurney as high as it would go and pulled the white sheet over his head, making it appear as if he were a corpse; Draco should consider it a favour, as it would save him from having to witness the indignity of flashing his bits to the Muggle world. After placing the medical notes in her beaded bag, she slowly opened the door and wheeled the gurney out, trying to follow the signs that led to the nearest lift. 

Finding one midway down the corridor, she hit the call button and waited. Once inside and the lift doors closed, she sagged a little, hoping to make it to the first floor before anything terrible happened. When the lift stopped at their destination, Hermione was about thank the Fates for listening to her, until the lift door opened. 

“Excuse me.”

Hermione froze.

A dark-skinned woman dressed in uniform with hair that looked like Tentacula vines, had her hand pressing against the lift doors to prevent them from closing. “Where do you think you’re taking him?”

“I… erm, that is to say he’s—”

“He’s what? Off to play a round of Snooker?”

Hermione bit down on her temper. “I should hope not!” she said, feigning outrage. “I doubt he’ll do much of anything, now that he’s dead.”

The other woman blanched. “My apologies, Doctor…”

“Black,” Hermione blurted. “Doctor Helen Black.”

The woman raised a dubious brow. “Well, Doctor Black, I’m not sure where you’re taking ‘John Doe’ there, but we don’t have a morgue. He’ll have to wait in the basement until the authorities arrive to claim his body.”

“Ah, well, today _is_ my first day, so I’d appreciate it if you could show me where the basement is located?” Hermione spoke calmly, trying to hide her racing heart. 

Another long look and the woman relented, nodding behind her. “This way, _Doctor_.” 

Hermione swung the gurney around and followed the woman, though she became increasingly uneasy the further they travelled. This was confirmed when they arrived at a nursing station full of hospital staff, all of whom turned to stare at Hermione.

Just then, Draco moaned, loudly, and his right arm flopped out from beneath the sheet. “Damn,” Hermione muttered.

The nurses at the station started and stared, two of them reaching for their phones to call for security, but just then an ambulance pulled up right outside the entrance, siren wailing. Seconds later, a gurney wheeled by EMT’s arrived.

On it was a large man, shouting curses and threats, his eyes filled with rage, hell-bent on biting everyone that got near him. 

A raving psychotic was just the distraction they needed!

The EMTs, in an effort to avoid further injury (such as being kicked in the bollocks), jumped away from the thrashing patient and collided with the security guards that had been sent to handle Hermione. They all landed in a heap on the floor.

The psychotic, free of his restraints, promptly grabbed a syringe that one of the EMTs had been ready to use on him, and wrapped his arm around the neck of the woman who had questioned Hermione. He jabbed the needle into the woman’s bicep, thumb poised on the plunger.

“Stay back, all of you! Make one move and,” he looked down at her name badge, “and Madge here is down for the count.”

Seeing that everyone was occupied, Hermione decided to see if she could reason with him. “Excuse me? Sir?”

“What?” the scruffy, wild-eyed man shouted.

“I don’t care what you do to them,” Hermione said, gesturing towards the hospital staff, “and this one’s already dead. Can we leave?”

Draco decided at that moment to groan again. Hermione closed her eyes in resignation.

There was a bark of mad laughter. “You’re a patient, aren’t you?” More laughter from the psychotic, then it stopped and a dark look fell over his features. “Right, get the fuck out of here, the both of you!” he spat, his body shaking. 

“Thank you,” she managed to choke out.

Several people moved to keep her from leaving, but the psychotic screamed again for no one to move, all the while holding his thumb on the plunger of the syringe. Hermione hurriedly pushed the gurney bearing Draco to the end of the corridor, where the emergency exit door she’d used earlier was located. This would have to be timed perfectly. Stripping back the coverlet, she lifted Draco from the mattress, surprised that he wasn’t as heavy as she’d anticipated. Securing her arms around him, she pulled him off the gurney, grabbed her beaded bag and pushed through the emergency door, which set off the alarm.

The shrill noise set her nerves on edge and startled Draco enough that he fought her grip. “Shhh, Draco. It’s okay, you’re safe now.” He quieted immediately, so she counted that as one thing that was going in her favour.

Fortunately, the emergency door was located away from the main entrance, emptying out right at the edge of the woods she’d traipsed through earlier. Everyone was so focused on the critical patient at the main entrance, they’d conveniently forgotten about ‘John Doe’. Well, briefly, though she didn’t expect that to last much beyond ten minutes. Unfortunately, Hermione couldn’t use her magic to Apparate for fear of someone latching onto her magical trace and following her into the Wizarding world. That left Muggle means of transportation. Lovely. On the plus side, however, she’d learned to drive during the summer before her final year at Hogwarts. The car park was right next to the main entrance, though, and there seemed no way to get one without being seen. They’d have to go round to the side lot.

“Bloody Malfoy,” she groused and started dragging him in that direction. 

She stayed along the treeline until they were out of sight of the personnel clustered around the main entrance, then turned her attention to the car park. The closest was a bright red Citroen C1, which wouldn’t have been her ideal choice—the colour alone would draw attention—but beggars couldn’t be choosers, she reflected. 

Another problem emerged, however, when she went to open the door: locked. “Son of a banshee!” 

Letting Malfoy slump on the ground, she ran to the garden beds surrounding the facility and picked several heavy ornamental rocks. Returning with one the size of a Bocce ball, she heaved it through the driver’s side window and hoped that it didn’t have an alarm system. 

It did, and it blared loudly. But at this point, she was out of options.

She cleared away the broken glass, then reached in to hit the button to unlock the passenger side. She dragged Draco around the car and practically threw him into the passenger seat, slamming the door with what some might call unnecessary force. Hermione climbed into the driver’s seat, hearing as she did so, raised voices in the distance, growing closer by the minute. She had no key, obviously, but there must be something...

“Now what?” She examined the steering column. It wasn’t as if she knew how to hot-wire a car. “Think, Hermione, think!” 

She let her head fall back on the headrest, suddenly exhausted, and that’s when she saw it: a spare key tucked away in the sun visor. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she breathed.

She snatched the key, jammed it into the ignition and turned it. The car lurched forward when she stepped on the gas, throwing Draco and herself towards the dashboard. It felt like they were stuck. She searched for any indicator until she realised she needed to release the parking break. Viciously pushing down on the lever, she depressed the clutch, shifted gears and stepped on the gas. 

It was a miracle they made it out of the car park without killing themselves or someone else. 

Halfway to the security gate, Hermione brought the car to a halt. She leaned over Draco to pull the safety strap across his limp body and buckle it. After he was secured, she clicked her own belt into place then kicked savagely at the dashboard, silencing the obnoxious alarm. She pressed the clutch, shifted and stepped on the gas pedal.

“Hold on to your seat belt; it’s going to be a bumpy ride!”


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione drove as if Fluffy were right behind her, nipping at her heels. Though it was a fact she had her driver’s license, it’d been ages since she’d actually had to use an automobile to get around. It also didn’t help that it was just after one in the morning and her tired eyes kept missing signs that indicated where she was going.

When she realised she’d turned the wrong way on Blackheath Hill, she backed up and tried to retrace her route, but ended up in the car park of Park Beekeeping Supplies. Muttering under her breath, she reversed the car again and made her way onto the A2, turning west instead of south. As she passed the George & Dragon pub with its lights still blazing, she realized that she hadn’t eaten much that day and her stomach growled. But the feeling that she and her passenger (cargo?) were still in danger refused to leave her, so she remained on the A2 hoping to make it to inner London before dawn.

That was easier said than done. 

Jerky halts at stop signs, endlessly circling one roundabout because several dunderheads refused to let her merge, and almost forgetting to yield to a pedestrian, made the time pass more quickly than she’d first thought. Thank Merlin, Draco was insensate, or he might have screamed himself hoarse. Yes, she would need to look into a remedial driving course when she next visited Muggle London. The next time she glanced at her watch, it was quarter past two and she felt as though they’d travelled about sixteen kilometres. She scanned the dimly lit street signs and noticed they were near the Royal Albert pub, which she recalled as being several kilometres ahead. Just as she was about to attempt to merge onto New Cross Road, the car spluttered in an alarming manner. 

“No!” She banged the steering wheel with the heel of her hand. “What else can go wrong?” 

Although the traffic was light, Hermione steered the car off to the side of the road, where the engine coughed when she put it in park. Her eyes scanned the dashboard until she came to the illuminated orange indicator: Low Petrol. She thought about waving her wand and filling the near-empty tank, but images of rogue wizards converging upon their location to do unspeakable things stopped the words before she opened her mouth. She skimmed the area looking for a petrol station, but found nothing. The engine now sounded like it was losing power. Knowing the longer the car idled on the road, the higher the risk of the engine dying right there, she grabbed her beaded bag and searched for her wallet. There was small hope that she’d remembered to bring her Muggle credit card, and when she was done turning out the contents of said wallet, it revealed she had £125 in notes, but nothing else.

She was on the verge of screaming with exhaustion and frustration, when she heard the distant sound of Muggle police sirens. They may have heralded approaching Muggle authorities determined to find her—she did, after all, basically kidnap a patient from a psychiatric institute—but she refused to wait for the police to catch up to them. 

Sniffing back a sob, she depressed the clutch, shifted the gears and moved forward as fast as she dared, trying to conserve petrol. She racked her brain for anything that would help with… well, anything at this point, when she spied a sign for the St James’ Guest House on Breakspears Road, about five minutes away. Recalling Shacklebolt’s note, Hermione sagged in relief; Mrs Farley was the Squib who owned said guest house and had informed Kingsley about the ‘John Doe’ on the news report. Wiping her wet eyes on her sleeve, Hermione urged the car on until she was able to exit to the left, following the signs that led the way to the accommodations. The car came to a shuddering halt in front of a Victorian house several nerve-racking minutes later, gave one final cough and refused to go further.

The pressing urgency to hide eased somewhat, and Hermione sat back and let out a huge sigh, planning to settle in and wait for Mrs Farley to be up and about later that morning before she inquired about a room. Just then, however, a small light came on in the lounge of the house, showing a woman passing through as she donned an apron. 

“Oh, blessed be,” Hermione breathed and got out of the car. 

She knocked quietly and nearly wept with relief when the door opened wide to reveal a gentle-looking older woman. “Gracious, child! What are you doing up at this hour?”

“Stranded,” Hermione laughed shortly. “My friend and I ran out of petrol, and I—”

The woman gave her a wink. “Say no more, Miss Granger. Bring your things and I’ll get you settled.”

Flustered, the best Hermione could manage was, “Erm, thank you, Mrs Farley.”

The woman smiled. “Most folks call me Mrs Farley, but you can call me Shannon.” She made shooing motions with her hands. “Go on then, I suspect your young man is quite cold sitting out there in naught but a scrap of cloth.”

Mrs Farley—Shannon—disappeared into the house’s interior before Hermione could ask how she could’ve possibly known her passenger was wearing only a hospital gown. It was a safe bet that there had already been new reports flashing across the telly, asking people to be on the lookout for her and Draco. If that was the case, Hermione didn’t want to waste time debating whether to stay or not because the woman was right; it was growing colder by the minute, even though it was nearing the end of April.

Draco was still deeply asleep, so Hermione hauled one of his arms over her shoulder and dragged him into the house. He wasn’t a heavy man, but she was still gasping by the time she dropped him onto a sage-green sofa, face first. This had the lovely effect of allowing the flimsy gown to come untied in the back and flop open.

“My word, that’s a pert arse!”

Hermione, who had sunk into the matching chair, pried her eyes open at Shannon’s exclamation only to have them fixated on Draco’s very bare backside. Heat suffused her face as she quickly grabbed an afghan and threw it over Draco’s prone form. 

“Sorry,” she said wearily. “It’s been a long night.”

Shannon sympathised. “You do look like you’ve been through the wringer, Miss Granger.”

Hermione nodded. “This became a great deal more complicated than I’d anticipated. And please, call me Hermione.”

“All right, Hermione. You must pardon me, but I’m curious. After seeing the footage from Blackheath on the telly, why haven’t you just Apparated? Using Muggle transportation seems—”

“Tedious,” Hermione huffed. “I discovered certain issues with this case that lead me to believe that using magic would draw unwanted attention towards Draco Malfoy, hence I’ve refrained.” She looked out the window. “I need to hide the car so the authorities won’t find it.”

Shannon tutted. “Don’t worry about the car. I’ll take care of it as soon as you’re comfortable.” She studied Hermione. “Do you have a change of clothing? Only, you look a wee bit conspicuous in a lime green hospital uniform.”

Hermione glanced down at her uniform and grimaced. The colour was revolting, but it was a sight better than what the psychiatric facility had outfitted Draco in. She lifted her beaded bag. “I have clothes for myself, but I hadn’t planned…” She nodded towards the now snoring man on the sofa. “I don’t suppose there’s anything nearby where I can purchase some clothing?”

“Oh, I’ve got something in the attic, I’m sure,” Shannon reassured her, waving off her concern. “My boy, Jake, well, he was about your young man’s size. I’m sure I can scrounge up a pair of denim trousers and a couple of shirts.” She glanced at Draco’s feet. “Can’t say that I’d have the shoes, mind you. Bit long, that one.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said quietly. “You’ll have to thank Jake for us as well.”

A wistful look overtook Shannon’s features for a moment and then disappeared. “My Jake has been gone these five years. It’s good to see someone getting some use out of his things.”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione whispered. The distant ache that was her still-missing parents flared to life and she had to bite her lower lip to keep the tears at bay. “I know how hard it is to lose someone you love.”

Shannon gave her a piercing look. “I expect you do, child.” She stared for a moment, then shook herself. “Heavens, you must be knackered. I’ve got the one double room, but the others are full up or reserved. It’ll have to do.”

“No, that’s fine, truly.” Well, it wouldn’t be fine for her mental stability, but she would just have to deal with the awkward situation when Draco woke up. “How much is the room?”

“Normally about sixty-five quid, but I think I can give you the single room rate, for a night.” Shannon moved to the sofa. “Come on, then. I’ll help you with Mr Malfoy and then you two can finally rest a bit.”

Hermione arched her back to relieve the low ache that had settled at the base of her spine. She bent to sling one of Draco’s arms over her shoulder while Shannon did the same with the other. Draco’s head lolled on his shoulders until it came to rest on the arm Hermione was holding. He started to drool.

“Lovely,” Hermione muttered as she manoeuvred him up the stairs to where the bedrooms were located. 

Guiding them to the second room on the left, Shannon unlocked the door and let it swing open to reveal a cozy bedroom with sloped ceilings, the décor in baby blue. Hermione hefted Draco further onto her shoulder and pulled him into the room, lowering him onto the middle of the bed, the duvet curling around him. 

“It’s still a couple hours before breakfast, but not near enough time for you to rest. I’ll set aside something for when you’re feeling more peckish.” Shannon nodded down the hall. “There’s no _en suite_ I’m afraid, but the loo and bathroom are just there, at the end of the corridor.”

Hermione placed her hand on Shannon’s arm and squeezed. “This is more than generous, believe me. I’d contemplate a hot bath, but I’m too tired to do more than fall into bed.” She blinked, somewhat mortified at what her offhand comment sounded like. “I mean, not that I… not that we… we’re just friends.”

Shannon gave her a sly grin. “Not for long, I wager. I’d be doubting your senses if you turned down a man like that.”

“We have a… complicated history,” Hermione said, her voice thin. “There wouldn’t be anything to turn down because he’d never offer.”

A weathered hand patted Hermione’s cheek. “That may be, child. That may be. I may not have any magic, but neither am I ignorant of what went on during those horrible years. The Malfoys were a nasty lot, to be sure, but I figure having a murderous tyrant as a houseguest for any length of time could sober the most power-drunk wizard or witch. Seeing someone that you love die by your hand, or because of your actions, changes a person, Hermione. You know that, you’ve seen it. I doubt that boy is the same as he was when he was hexing you and your friends just to embarrass you. His perspective has changed, and with it, his view of others he’d previously deemed unworthy. Should love be offered, there is no shame in claiming it. There is only loss in holding back.” Shannon smiled and left, closing the door behind her.

Hermione sank to the floor, her back against the door, and let out a huge sigh. “I don’t know what you got yourself into, Draco,” she mused ruefully, “but it’s putting your Hogwarts days to shame.” She puffed a stray frizzy strand away from her eyes.

Every muscle in her body ached as if she’d suffered the Cruciatus Curse multiple times. Not that she had to the extent like Neville’s parents, bless them, but it seemed likely that the pain she was feeling was only the tip of the iceberg. 

Draco continued to snore, sprawled out like a starfish on the mattress. She contemplated sleeping on the floor next to the bed, but she was so miserably exhausted that she refused to be intimidated by sleeping next to him. He was drugged out of his mind, for heaven’s sake. What could he possibly do without a wand? At most, she might drown in the amount of drool he was producing. 

Mind made up, she crept down the hall to use the loo. Spying a bevy of cellophane-wrapped toothbrushes, she snagged one and made use of it. Her duties as dentists’ daughter finished, she returned to their room and began looking through the drawers in the small bureau near the lone window. Like any proprietor worth their weight in Galleons, Shannon had anticipated a wide range of needs that a traveller might have. One drawer contained sleepwear, and Hermione plucked a long-ish sleep shirt from the pile. She shed the ghastly uniform, stuffed it in her beaded bag and slipped the soft cotton over her body, relishing the warmth of the material. 

A grunt issued from Draco and he rolled over, flopping onto his stomach, bearing his arse once more. Hermione groaned and began sifting through another drawer until she found a pair of pyjama bottoms that appeared long enough. She grabbed them and shimmied them up Draco’s legs. When she got past his thighs, however, she closed her eyes and just pushed them until they went no further. She peeked one eye open and saw that the material had bunched between his cheeks, and he had the most massive wedgie. She quickly tugged the pants down a bit so as not to cause discomfort. It wasn’t that she was a prude—far from it, especially since she and Ron had been in each other’s pockets for months after the war—but something about touching Draco’s body when he was unaware left her feeling queasy. If her theory was confirmed as to what happened three years ago, Draco had had enough of ‘someone’ touching him inappropriately to last him a lifetime. 

Pulling him to a slouched sitting position, she snagged the duvet and tugged it down far enough that she could manoeuvre him beneath the covers to one side. That finished, she crawled under the duvet on the opposite side and turned off the bedside lamp. The room dropped into ominous shadows, yet no tell-tale sense of impending disaster caused her to constantly look over her shoulder to see if they were being watched, or worse, followed. Allowing herself to relax for the first time in several days, Hermione closed her eyes, content in the fact that Draco was near.

* * *

A dog was barking, somewhere nearby. 

Annoying birdsong rose and fell in waves, the sound like winged keys trying to pummel her brain. 

Sunlight tickled her nose.

Warm breath puffed over her face in measured increments. That wasn’t right… was it?

Slowly, Hermione opened her eyes to see Draco staring at her, the indigo smudges beneath his eyes accentuating the depth of sleep deprivation he’d suffered. She blinked rapidly and swallowed. “Good morning,” she croaked.

He didn’t respond.

She searched his face, looking for any sign that the drug was still in his system. His eyes were a little glassy, but nothing compared to the previous evening. “How do you feel?”

His eyes shifted briefly. “Where… where am I?” His voice was raspy, as if he’d been screaming for a long period of time.

“London,” she whispered. 

“London.” He sounded a tad fearful. “How…” He swallowed thickly. “How did I get here?”

Hermione gently touched his head where his laceration had been. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, his expression anguished. “Snippets, images. A red building, lots of noise. Sitting at a table, eating with my…” He frowned. “She was always throwing things, pulling her hair. She almost pulled it all out once. I must’ve been sick; she was always giving me medicine every day. Working at a second-hand book shop.” He opened his eyes, red-rimmed as well as bloodshot, and looked at Hermione. “The last thing I remember of you with any clarity is the evening I last saw you. I’d just sat down at a table in the Tea Room, and then… nothing. How long ago was that? A week? Two? I don’t know.”

Oh, God. Draco didn’t know, had no clue how long he’d been gone. Hermione searched beneath the covers and grasped his hand tightly, knowing the news would come as a shock. “It was quite a bit longer than that, Draco.”

A tremor started in his limbs, radiating down into the hand that held hers. “Well, how long then? It can’t be as long as—”

“Three years,” she said quickly. “You disappeared a little over three years ago.”

His eyes widened. “Disappeared?” he bit out harshly. “For three years? How is that possible? Didn’t anyone bother to look for me?”

“Of course, Draco. Your mother and father have never stopped looking,” she reassured him.

“Oh, but not you?” he retorted, jerking his hand away from hers.

She knew his reaction was defensive, but that didn’t stop the frisson of pain that lanced through her at his insinuation. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Three years too late!”

“My hands were tied.”

“Seems you slipped your binds, or did you use a safe word?”

“I should really slap you for that, Draco Malfoy,” she seethed. She rolled to sit up, her back to him. “You know better than most what sort of impediments the Ministry engages in when they don’t want something to come to light.” She shoved back the covers, rose from the bed and grabbed her beaded bag.

“Are you saying the Ministry is responsible for doing this to me?”

She paused and half-turned at the note of fury in his voice. “Since I don’t know the full extent of what has happened, I can’t say, but they weren’t exceedingly helpful in searching for you. More like showing the public they made an effort to find you. When I pushed to research further, I was told in no uncertain terms that if I did, the same thing might happen to me as well.” 

Draco sat up on the edge of the bed, his fingers clenched on the mattress. “I’m not supposed to be here,” he said flatly. “I need to go home.” 

She paused in rummaging around in her bag and studied him. “That’s where I’m taking you.”

He gave her an odd look, one that was a mixture of hope and dread. “You’re taking me back to her?”

“Her?” Hermione asked carefully. Of course she’d heard him talk of a nebulous woman that morning, but that didn’t mean she was ready to discuss it.

Draco rose, swaying a bit. “My…” He frowned, trying to concentrate. “She’s important to me, but I don’t know why.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled sharply. “I feel like I’m going to be sick.”

Hermione didn’t question him further. She grabbed a nearby rubbish bin, thrust it in his hands and turned away before he started retching. The bed springs squeaked, so she imagined he was sitting again, though he was not done being sick. Knowing Draco would need to rinse out his mouth, she quickly left and obtained a glass of water from the bathroom and returned to see him shove the bin away. 

“Here, rinse your mouth, then drink the rest.” Once he was done, she sat next to him on the bed, one leg tucked underneath her. “The Muggles gave you some high-potency medication and you’re probably feeling the side-effects.”

He nodded absently, staring at his hands in his lap. “Is that why I feel empty?” he asked quietly. “Like I’m hollow inside?”

“I’m not sure.”

He turned to look at her. “But you have theories.”

“Many, though they’re just speculations at this point.” She touched his shoulder. “You had a laceration on your head when you were brought to the Royal London hospital, which I eventually healed. Do you remember how you got it?”

Draco ran his fingers through his hair. “There was a fight. There was always a fight,” he mused bitterly. “She was screaming, frantically screaming, worried about ‘running out’ of... something, and needing more.” He frowned in concentration. “I told her I was leaving, and she… she went quiet, as if nothing had happened. She even smiled and hugged me. Then, she went into another room and I had an intense urge to run. I had to run from that place, it was suffocating. So, I left. She followed me. I was crossing a road and was pushed from behind. I think…” He winced. “I think I hit the kerb and blacked out.”

“Someone must have brought you to the A&E afterwards. Do you think it was ‘her’?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know; the next thing I remember is waking up here.”

“Do you remember anything about ‘her’?”

“All my memories of her are muted, like echoes of dreams.” He looked out the window, his expression despondent. “She was always there. She always touched me and sometimes she was kind, but most times it was violent. I kept trying to leave her. No, that’s not right. Escape, is more like it. But every time I tried to leave, I felt like my insides were clawing their way out of me, and I would end up back in the flat with her, where the sensation would stop.” He shut his eyes, flinching. “I can’t do… I can’t do this,” he managed. “Maybe Legilimency would help?”

“I don’t have the proficiency to even contemplate Legilimency, Draco. I don’t want to cause any further damage. And even if I did, I don’t want to risk exposing us by using magic.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Whoever did this to you is still out there, possibly looking for you. I’ve tried to remain as discreet as I can, so they can’t trace my magical signature. The last time I used magic was at the psychiatric hospital—a Lumos to check your pupil dilation.”

“Psychiatric hospital? _That’s_ where you found me?” At her nod, he rubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion clearly taking its toll. “I thought that was a nightmare. I thought I’d escaped, only to end up with her again.”

“You were sectioned after raving about magic and trying to injure the staff.” She bit her bottom lip. “Do you remember what she looked like?”

“No,” he ground out. “Every time I try to focus on her features, they blur, like the edges of a Notice-Me-Not Charm.” He clenched his fists until his knuckles were white. “My memory is so full of holes, I feel like I’ve been hit with one of Lockhart’s Memory Charms _before_ he was sent to the Janus Thickey Ward.”

“Wretched wizard that he was, he was quite proficient in…” Hermione trailed off. 

“What?” Draco asked, peering at her strangely. 

She shook her head, a suspicion forming. “It’s just something you said. Memory Charms.”

“Yes? What about them?” 

She rose from the bed and began to pace, mumbling under her breath as she tried to sort through the clues in an orderly fashion.

“I need the loo.”

Hermione heard him only vaguely. “Hmmm.” There was something about Memory Charms that made her twitchy.

“Bath as well.”

She waved her hand, as if swatting at a gnat. Maybe if the charm was poorly executed, or misfired for some reason? 

“And some clothes.”

That could explain the lapses in his memory... 

“Or I could just shed my gown here and take a piss on the carpet.”

Her pacing came to an abrupt halt as his words registered. “What?”

He smirked. “I wondered if that would pull you out of that enormous brain of yours.”

She sniffed and gave him a haughty look. “My brain is no larger than the average human’s. I just use more of it.”

“Right.” He stood up on shaky legs, holding onto the bedside table for balance. “I need the loo, in case you didn’t hear me before.”

“Oh!” Her cheeks heated with embarrassment. “Sorry, I’ll help you. I’m sure you’re still dizzy from the drug.” 

Before he could protest, Hermione put her arm around his back and gently tugged him forward. He wasn’t prepared for the motion and fell against her, clinging to her shoulders to keep from falling to the floor. As if she’d done it a thousand times, she wrapped both arms around him, holding his thin frame. 

Draco tensed for a moment before relaxing and burying his face against her neck. “Thank you,” he murmured, his breath warm on her shoulder.

She shuddered and closed her eyes. It was instinctive for her to offer comfort to those in need. She’d mothered Harry and Ron for so many years; it was second nature to do so for anyone distraught, no matter whom it may be. What she was feeling, however, was far from motherly. She realised that one of her hands had drifted to the nape of Draco’s neck and had begun a soothing caress.

“For what?” she asked, uncomfortably aware that her voice sounded husky. She should pull back, put distance between them, at least until he was safely with his family.

Draco tightened his embrace as if sensing her thoughts. “For not giving up.” His lips moved against her skin. “For not leaving me behind.” He inhaled deeply. “For finding me.”

She began slowly stroking up and down his back, as she bent her head and pressed her face into the crook of his neck. Before he’d disappeared, Hermione had often imagined what sort of person Draco might have chosen for a partner, or even as a wife. She hadn’t dared think that she might have had that spotlight—if anything, she’d always been pragmatic about his family and his expectations, and knew that being a part of his life in that way could be nothing more than an elaborate Daydream Charm. After he’d disappeared, though, it wasn’t as easy to suppress her growing feelings for him. Now, with him in her arms, it was all becoming muddled, and she feared that her heart would not emerge unscathed. 

“Not finding you was never an option,” she whispered. She turned her head and, in a moment of foolish weakness, pressed her lips to his temple.

Draco let out a broken sob and pulled her closer, holding her so tight she almost couldn’t breathe. His fingers dug into her back, but she ignored the pain and remained within his embrace, continuing the soothing caress on his neck.

“I don’t love her,” he whimpered. His tears soaked her sleep shirt. “She kept saying that I did, because otherwise I would’ve left and I was still there. But I couldn’t leave! I tried, but it felt like I was carving out my heart when I walked out the door.” His body shook. “Merlin help me, I still feel like I belong to her, like I need to go back.”

Hermione closed her eyes and willed the prickling sensation away. This was not the time for tears, at least not for her. She needed to be strong, resolute to help Draco return to his family. To help him break the vicious cycle of whatever curse had been placed on him. That was what gave her the strength to finally pull back from his arms, though she had to be firm to make him fully let go.

“I’m not going anywhere, Draco,” she promised, squeezing his hand. “But we’re not safe here.”

He sniffed and wiped his face, looking a tad embarrassed at his outburst. “No, you’re right. The sooner we get back to…where are we again?”

She gave him a gentle smile. “We’re just outside of London, about forty minutes from the Leaky Cauldron.”

He attempted a sneer, and she hid a smile at his efforts to re-establish his old self. “Forty minutes via Muggle means.”

“Seeing as you don’t have a wand—”

“But you do.” He looked pointedly at her beaded bag. 

She shook her head. “Magical trace, remember?”

“If we Apparate to the Leaky Cauldron, we could be in Diagon Alley before they catch up to us,” he pointed out in exasperation. “I’m tired, I’m hungry and I’m filthy. I want this all to be over sooner rather than later.”

She could sympathise, but the idea of using magic still made her uneasy. So many things could go wrong. Still, Draco did have a point. The quicker they got him back to the Wizarding world, the safer he would be. Theoretically, anyway. “All right,” she said. 

He sagged in relief. “I still need to use the loo,” he added.

“How could I forget?” she said with a laugh. She went to the nightstand near the door and picked up the bundle of clothes Shannon had left for Draco during their slumber. “Here, hopefully these fit you. They’re all Mrs Farley had.”

“What’s wrong with this?” Draco complained, tugging at his gown and pyjama bottoms. 

Hermione shoved the bundle into his arms. “Showing up in Muggle London wearing a patient gown will draw attention, which is the last thing we need right now.”

He looked over the items with a grimace. “These are Muggle clothes.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And?”

“Fine,” he huffed. “I’ll just burn them when I get home.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” She lowered her voice. “These clothes belonged to Mrs Farley’s son, Jake.”

“So?”

“He’s dead.”

Draco recoiled with a cry of disgust, flinging the clothes on the bed and away from him.

“Draco!”

“What?” he groused. “Would _you_ want to wear a dead Muggle’s clothing? Who knows how he died? I’m already weak.” Here he even produced a phlegmy cough. “I could contract whatever killed him and then where would I be, hmm?”

She rolled her eyes. “Still annoying the rest of us with your spectral whinging, I imagine.” 

“Only you,” he said crossly, but there was a mischievous glint in his eye.

“I should be so lucky.” She pointed to the door. “Go and change.”

“Not into those,” he refused heatedly. 

Crossing her arms, she gave him a saccharine smile. “Since you need me to get you home, I suggest you put on the bloody clothes before I parade you bare-arsed naked down Piccadilly Circus.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Do you really want to test that theory?”

He glanced between her and the clothes, finally scooping up the shirt and denim trousers with an aggrieved sigh. “You know, you missed your calling being in Gryffindor. Your intimidation techniques rival Crabbe and Goyle.” With that, Draco wobbled out the door and down the hall, grumbling the entire way.

She smiled to herself when she heard the bathroom door slam, thinking that she would’ve made a formidable Slytherin indeed.

* * *

“These are itchy.”

Hermione rubbed her temples, trying not to groan.

“Let me guess,” Shannon said with a wicked grin. “Naught else has touched your skin except the angels themselves before now.”

Draco gave Hermione a confused look. “What is she—”

“We’re extremely grateful for the clothes, Mrs Farley,” Hermione interrupted before Draco could say something rude.

Shannon nodded. “That Chelsea blue brings out your young man’s eyes, it does.”

At this Hermione did groan, and hid her face in her hands. The borrowed clothing—a royal blue Chelsea F.C. jersey complete with a white non-heraldic lion standing over the club’s initials, and faded blue jeans—fit Draco like a glove. An obscenely good-looking glove. His hair was still damp from his much-needed bath and strands feathered away from his face to curl over his ears. She didn’t need to look at him to know that he was grinning a mile wide at the innkeeper’s assumption.

Shannon insisted they at least have tea before Draco and Hermione departed, so they joined her in the conservatory. As they sipped the hot brew Draco fidgeted in his seat. Every few minutes, Hermione would glance up to see Shannon watching them closely.

“Sorry,” Shannon said, slightly embarrassed. “It’s not every day I meet someone who was involved in the war. Bit star-struck, is all. Gemma used to talk about both of you all the time.” 

Draco froze and Hermione’s hand paused in lifting the mug of tea to her lips. She saw that his hands had begun to shake, so she grabbed one and laced their fingers together. 

“You had children at Hogwarts?” Hermione asked, trying to remember anyone in her class with the last name of Farley.

“Gemma Farley, Hufflepuff prefect in our first year,” Draco offered quietly.

Shannon smiled. “Yes, she was my youngest. My other children had left by the time you started. It was her last year…” She trailed off, her tone wistful. 

Try as she might, Hermione couldn’t conjure a face to go with the name. “What does she do now?” she asked, hoping to maybe place her daughter within the Ministry.

Draco hissed and tightened his grip on Hermione’s hand, grimacing as if he’d swallowed something foul. 

Shannon pursed her lips and Hermione could tell she was trying not to break down. “I…” She abruptly closed her mouth and instead concentrated on the now-cold beverage in front of her. “More tea, I think.” She smiled briefly and excused herself. 

Cold suffused Hermione’s core. Something dreadful had happened to this woman’s children, and Hermione had invoked painful memories for her, though not intentionally.

“We should go, Granger,” Draco said, standing.

“But—”

Draco grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. “If Gemma Farley is her daughter, that makes her one of the most aggrieved mothers in Wizarding history. Given who we are, and in particular who _I_ am, we’re doing her no favours to remain here.”

It was a testament to how tired Hermione still was that she hadn’t made the connection until that moment. “Oh, Merlin, the Muggle-born registration. All her children... missing.”

“Dead,” Draco spat. “Snatchers caught them, all five of them, one by one.” He glanced behind Hermione and lowered his voice. “I heard that Greyback had particular fun with the one named Isabella.”

Hermione winced. “Oh, God.” She really, _really_ didn’t want to think about what the werewolf had done to this lovely woman’s daughter. She had to remember how to breathe. “I agree, we need to leave.”

It was the height of rudeness to leave without thanking their host, but Hermione flashed back to her time in Malfoy Manor, brief though it had been, and shuddered with an overwhelming urge to flee. She extracted all the Muggle money she had in her beaded bag and placed it on the table; it would have to do. 

She took Draco’s hand and withdrew her wand from its hiding place. “Ready?”

Draco nodded. “More than.”

A loud pop vibrated the windows in the conservatory, and they were gone.

* * *

“Violet! Order for table twenty-three is up.”

The slender, dark-haired woman snagged four plates from the counter and placed them on her tray. She manoeuvred around the other servers at the _All Bar One_ bistro, and delivered two orders each of Halloumi skewers and tempura prawns to the table near the window. The customers thanked her, then proceeded to ignore her. 

Violet’s lips thinned. She was normally quite tolerant of rude people, but recently things had not been going well, not since her husband had disappeared. She’d been to the police to report him missing, of course, but they were less than useless. Telling her they had no record of a Calvin Dougherty at her address—the idiots. She’d gone searching for him herself, but had found no trace of him. She was particularly worried because he needed his medication, and this was now his fifth day without it. 

“Was there something you wanted, Miss?”

The sarcastic tone of the question shook Violet from her thoughts, and she looked with irritation at the female patron who had spoken. “There’s no need to be—”

She stopped, and nearly trod on the woman in her haste to plaster herself against the window that looked out onto Charing Cross Road. On the opposite side of the street, a woman was walking quickly towards a grotty pub. Beside her, her arm through his, was Violet’s husband.

“Calvin!” Violet yelled and pounded on the glass. If he’d left her for another woman, she’d kill him.

“Oi, you! Back to work!”

Violet turned around, glared at her manager and whispered, “ _Frons Ruptus_.” 

Nothing happened. The manager gave her an odd look. 

Why hadn’t it worked? It worked before, but then again, she had no idea what the words were supposed to do, let alone why she knew them. Frustrated, angry and seething with hatred, Violet pushed past the manager and out the door. She quickly crossed the street and, with a quick glance at the faded sign that showed some sort of iron pot underneath illegible lettering, entered the broken-down old shop front into which she’d seen her husband disappear.

She wasn’t prepared for the onslaught of smells, sights and almost pure electricity that filled the atmosphere. Several oddly-dressed people milled about a giant hearth where a fire blazed, while others sat around the tables, laughing and drinking. A grizzled woman sitting at the bar cackled and it sent shivers up her spine. What was her husband doing in a place like this? She scanned the crowd, finally spying his bright blond head towards the back.

“Calvin!”

The whole room quieted and heads turned to look at her, but she ignored them and shoved her way to where her husband—and that woman, who the bloody hell was she?—stood near the doorway leading into a courtyard.

Why was he not rushing into her arms, glad to see her? “Calvin, where’ve you been?”

He gave her a blank look, and despite her anger, her heart ached at his coldness.

“What’s wrong?” She moved towards him but he backed away, grabbing the hand of the woman behind him as if for protection. Violet narrowed her eyes and stared at the woman, who met her gaze fearlessly. “Who’s she?”

“You know who this is,” Calvin said in a measured tone. “And you know who I am.”

Violet laughed. “Of course I do. You’re my husband, Calvin Dougherty.”

The other woman frowned and Calvin licked his lips nervously. “No, I’m not,” he said, a little hysterical. 

Violet advanced. “I’m tired of this game we play every time you miss your medication, Calvin. It’s time to come home now.”

Calvin took a half-step forward, but the woman behind him kept hold of his hand and dragged him back to her side. “I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken,” she said calmly.

“And you’re clearly desperate if you’re clinging to another woman’s husband,” Violet snapped. “Let him go and I won’t have you charged with kidnapping.”

“Legal action would be inadvisable,” said a soothing voice from the courtyard doorway.

Violet turned to see a tall, rather shabbily dressed man with a long grey and brown beard. He wore a hat whose top flopped to one side and ended in a tassel with an arrow-pierced heart charm. His presence radiated power, but his smile was kind.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” the man said as he took Violet’s hand. “A great injustice has been wrought upon you.”

Violet stared at him for a moment before snorting and jerking her hand away. “I agree. I’d like my husband back, thank you.”

He gave her a sad smile. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Miss Parkinson.”


	4. Chapter 4

They appeared in a red doorway on Old Compton Street, just behind a CCTV camera. Hermione pointed her wand at Draco’s legs. “ _Calciatus_.” Muggle trainers appeared on his feet. She watched him wiggle his toes with a pinched expression, knowing he was irritated, but she pulled him away from the alcove and tightened her grasp on his hand before he could object to the footwear. “This way,” she said hurriedly.

They walked briskly up the street until they reached Charing Cross Road and turned right. There were a few people on the street, so they stuck closer to the buildings, hoping to avoid unwanted attention. As they passed a second-hand book shop called Lovejoy’s, Hermione focused her gaze on the dilapidated-looking building nestled between the book shop and an arcade whose sign read _Play 2 Win_. Though to Muggles it looked like an empty and crumbling shop-front, to those who came from the Wizarding world the sign with a steaming cauldron swinging in the slight breeze signalled a bridge between the worlds. 

Inside, Hermione let out a tense breath and nearly slumped to the floor in relief. 

“Hermione!”

She turned to see the smiling face of the landlady of the Leaky Cauldron. “Hannah!” She relaxed into the woman’s friendly embrace while retaining her grip on Draco’s hand. “It’s good to see you.”

Hannah hugged her for a moment, then turned to look at her other guest, her eyes widening. “Is that…?”

“Hannah, I’d love to stop and explain, but we’re short on time and I’m not exactly sure it’s safe for _him_ to be roaming about this close to the Muggle world right now,” Hermione said, cutting short any speculation. 

“Right, yes,” Hannah said. She pointed to the back of the pub. “Courtyard. You remember the brick combination?”

Hermione nodded and pulled Draco through the crowd of patrons, some of whom gaped at them with shocked looks. They were about to exit into the courtyard when she heard a commotion and then a familiar voice.

“Calvin!” 

The room quieted so that the pops and crackling hisses from the fire were the only noise. Hermione and Draco slowly turned around. When Hermione realised who she was looking at, shock could not even begin to convey the emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. 

“Calvin? Where’ve you been?”

Hermione felt Draco become rigid, his frame vibrating, battling his fight or flight instinct. He didn’t answer the woman, just stood there paralyzed.

“What’s wrong?” the woman said, moving towards them.

Hermione tugged Draco behind her, not intending to let him be ensnared again—certainly not by _her_. 

The woman glared at Hermione, an ugly expression on her face. “Who’s she?” the woman demanded, shifting her gaze to Draco.

Hermione could feel his hand trembling in hers, but he stepped forward to her side and said as calmly as possible, “You know who this is, and you know who I am.”

The woman laughed. “Of course I do. You’re my husband, Calvin Dougherty.”

Hermione realised with a chill that the woman wasn’t sane. If indeed she ever had been. And... Dougherty? Hermione frowned. Why did that name sound so familiar?

“No, I’m not,” Draco snarled, his tone panicked and angry all in one.

Hermione heard the scraping of shifting bricks from the courtyard behind her as the wall admitted someone from Diagon Alley, but she couldn’t afford to shift her attention away from the potentially explosive situation to see who it was. She only hoped it was an innocuous witch or wizard with no interest in the events unfolding. 

The tension increased as the woman moved determinedly towards Draco, her expression one of hostile frustration. “I’m tired of this game we play every time you miss your medication, Calvin. It’s time to come home now.”

As if an _Imperio_ had been cast, Draco started forward, his eyes somewhat glazed.

Hermione had a sudden flash of insight: the ‘medication’ the woman mentioned, could it be the missing Amortentia? And if so... Hermione grabbed hold of Draco’s shirt and dragged him back to her side. “I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken.”

“And you’re clearly desperate if you’re clinging to another woman’s husband,” the woman snapped, baring her teeth. “Let him go and I won’t press charges.”

“That would be inadvisable,” said a soothing voice from the courtyard doorway.

Hermione turned and nearly sobbed with relief at the sight of Caradoc Philemon, the Unspeakable. 

He’d always reminded Hermione of a much younger version of Dumbledore, though not as out-spoken as her former Headmaster. His robes of dark purple and blue set off the verdigris of his eyes and his beard reached past his waist, alternating between dark brown and light grey. The grey hat atop his bushy hair flopped over, pulled to the side by a heavy arrow-pierced heart charm that glinted when it caught the light just right. His gaze was focused on the distressed woman in front of them, his expression grave.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” Caradoc said and took her hand. “A great injustice has been wrought upon you.”

Upon _her_? What about Draco? Hermione was about to object to Caradoc’s skewed characterization of events, but the woman rushed on.

“I agree. I’d like my husband back, thank you,” she spat, jerking her hand away.

Caradoc recaptured her hand and gave her a sad smile. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Miss Parkinson.”

“Parkinson? My name’s not Parkinson. It’s Dougherty.”

“Perhaps it’s better this way,” Caradoc said, withdrawing his wand. “ _Somnus_.” The woman collapsed into his arms. Draco moved to help him with his burden, but Caradoc stopped him with a word. “No! You mustn’t touch her, not until we ascertain the extent of the spell damage.”

Draco quickly backed away, but it was clear he was conflicted. Now that they’d found one of the causes of his disappearance, Hermione wondered if Draco had harboured any lasting sentiment for Pansy that had caused him to seek her out in the Muggle world three years ago. As Hermione had told Harry previously, love was a complex thing; it could very well be that Draco had been trying to help her adjust to her new life when things took a turn for the worse. 

“Miss Granger, please take Mr Malfoy to the Ministry, if you would.” Caradoc cast a _Levicorpus_ on Pansy. “I shall follow and meet you in the Atrium.”

Draco didn’t budge and Hermione hesitated. 

“Don’t worry, my friend,” Caradoc said to Draco. “She’s in good hands. Things shall be sorted directly.”

When Draco still seemed unwilling to respond, Hermione tugged him to a hearth not in use, grabbed a handful of Floo powder and stepped into the grate. “Ministry of Magic, Level Eight.” 

Her last thoughts as she was whisked away in green flames were of Draco, whether she’d rescued him from a disastrous fate… or deprived him of a fulfilling life.

* * *

Once all four of them were in the atrium, Caradoc, Draco, Pansy and Hermione were shown by a Ministry official to a chamber in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes on Level Three of the Ministry and told to wait. Moments later, the chief of Obliviator Headquarters, Arnold Peasegood, entered and secured the door behind him. 

Peasegood looked at Draco and Pansy silently for a moment, then said, “I’m very sorry for the inconvenience to both of you. We will do our best to remedy the situation. I will need to examine each of you, singly, and then perhaps speak with you together. Are you amenable to this?”

Pansy, or the woman they used to know as Pansy, eyed him suspiciously. “I don’t know what you’re on about, but if it will get Calvin back then let’s get on with it.”

With a small smile, Peasegood led Pansy to a section of the chamber that held what looked like a modified surgical table behind a thick glass barrier, his actions visible to all in the room. As the examination progressed, Draco—now dressed in something more befitting his wizard nature—paced back and forth, watching every move Peasegood made.

Hermione kept her fingers clasped together to stop herself from taking one of Draco’s hands in support, or perhaps to keep him from trying to get to Pansy. If Amortentia had indeed, been the ‘medication’ Draco had been subjected to, it would explain some of his behaviour, but not all. Then again, she didn’t know how much was the potion and how much of it was based on their shared history. Her last nerve was quickly fraying when she felt long, weathered fingers interlace with hers in an effort to soothe her frazzled state. 

“I find observing without acting to be the hardest task in my line of work,” Caradoc said quietly. “Yet, also the most rewarding. My instincts about certain _issues_ are usually confirmed, if I am patient enough.” He gave Hermione a wink.

She felt her face heat from the blush of embarrassment and turned her head, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

Caradoc laughed, a light tinkling sound that reminded Hermione of raindrops hitting the brass bells in her parents’ back garden. “Don’t worry yourself, my dear. You’re not as easy to read as you fear. I simply have more experience extracting the necessary data.”

“Thank goodness for small mercies,” Hermione whispered. The thought of having her feelings on display for all and sundry to see made her want to cringe. “How did you find us? I mean, how did you know we would be at the Leaky Cauldron?”

A grim look settled onto Caradoc’s features as he led Hermione to a side table and pulled out one of the chairs for her to sit. He sighed heavily as he sat down opposite her. “As with any sort of gossip-mongering, the more one tries to keep something quiet, the quicker it spreads through the grapevine. I overheard that Mr Malfoy had possibly been found, and that one of Minister Shacklebolt’s best investigators had been sent to fetch him. When you failed to make an appearance, I gathered what information I’d obtained previously, did the Maths, and realised you would be needing assistance.” His gaze became intense and not a little intimidating. “What I’m about to tell you will be for your ears alone. Should you reveal this information, you will be summarily detained by a Hit-Wizard, your memory Obliviated and your wand snapped.” At her shocked look, he patted her hand as if he were trying to comfort her. “I work for the Department of Mysteries, after all, Miss Granger; surely you know the lengths to which we will go to conceal our work.” She nodded. “I’m doubly bound to this oath, as I am the Unspeakable for the Love Room.” He was quiet for a moment, idly watching Peasegood with Pansy. “When I was brought in to replace Calvin Dougherty, I was also given the task of solving a series of mysteries surrounding the disappearance of a significant quantity of Amortentia.”

Hermione’s thoughts went back to the conversation she’d had with Harry about what he’d overheard the Unspeakable muttering before disappearing behind the department door. 

“Inquiries during the investigation led me to believe that the missing quantity of Amortentia had been procured to exact a twisted sort of revenge.”

“Revenge?”

“Hmm, yes. As you know, ‘love’ makes fools of us all. It also has two sides, both equally important, giving credence to the idea of ‘I love you, I’ll kill you… but I’ll love you forever’. Love can be distorted by obsession, jealousy and envy just as easily as love can soften those very same traits.”

Hermione shook her head. “How do you do it, then? How can you stand being in that chamber for hours on end?” 

He smiled fondly and laughed. “Endless patience, though that often comes with years of experience. The examination to become an Unspeakable is thrice as hard as any other department, but I fear that Mr Dougherty was... unsuited for assignment to the Love Room, having neither the merit nor the necessary wisdom.” Caradoc glanced at Hermione, his gaze empathetic. “Voldemort’s rule was cruel, a trait which was reflected in those he chose to help his advancement. Dougherty, while not completely incompetent, nurtured within himself the darker side of Love—jealousy, possessiveness, impatience, envy and so on.” He stroked his long beard in contemplation. “One must have balance to enter the Love Room, Miss Granger; a witch or wizard wholly embracing one extreme or the other is unfit to navigate the complexities of both sides of the Galleon and will soon become lost in the intricacies.”

Hermione nodded. She was familiar with Ron’s jealousy and Harry’s impatience when things were not going their way, yet she still loved them. 

Caradoc smiled, as if he knew the direction of her thoughts. “Yes, ‘love’ in all its contexts is supremely difficult to narrow down to reason or biology, attraction or attachment. At times it’s merely a biological imperative, such as the love of a parent and child—human infants are dependent upon their parents for an extended period of time, thus parents need to bond with their child. In achieving this attachment, they ensure the propagation of the species by safeguarding the child and nurturing its needs, so that he or she may advance towards adulthood and start the process all over again.”

“But that’s not necessarily the norm, is it?” Hermione posed, nodding to Pansy and Draco. “If one looks at ‘love’ from a chemical perspective, then too much dopamine, norepinephrine and serotonin can cause just as much damage as too little.”

“Quite right,” Caradoc agreed. “In my search for answers, I had to return to the source—Calvin Dougherty.”

Hermione’s brows rose. “Where is he?”

“Azkaban, which was unfortunate.”

“Why?”

Caradoc shuddered. “Even without the Dementors, Miss Granger, it’s not a pleasant experience to visit that gaol. Yes, those soul-sucking menaces were removed, but a person would still be likely to lose their spirit trapped in a place like that. Dougherty was kept in isolation, which allowed me to question him at my leisure, though the results were quite disappointing. What memories he’d retained after the frankly spotty job of Obliviation to which he was subjected, provided the basis of my search.”

Across the room they saw Peasegood lead Pansy out of the examination room and sit her in a chair off to the side; she moved slowly and sat motionless, clearly under a spell of some sort. He beckoned Draco into the room and commenced his examination.

“They’re both victims, you know,” Caradoc said, pity lacing his tone. 

“But—”

“ _La douleur exquise_ ,” he murmured, “the exquisite pain of emotional agony.” His gaze was filled with heartache. “Dougherty, being a puppet of Voldemort, pilfered a litre of Amortentia from the fountain, keeping from the Ministry all knowledge of its disappearance until well after the Dark Lord’s demise. Of course, we did not gain the information willingly, but rather through Legilimency. The Legilimens was a novice, however, and bumbled through Calvin’s mind like a pillaging troll.”

Hermione winced at the memory of Harry’s brutal, but thankfully brief, Legilimency experience with Snape as his tutor. 

“There were massive gaps in Dougherty’s memories, but one fixation remained: he fancied the Parkinson girl, Pansy. He obsessed over her, so much that it grew like a cancer in his soul. During Thicknesse’s tenure as Minister, Dougherty approached the Parkinson family to request a contract for marriage; he assumed he would be eagerly accepted since he was a disciple of their master. However, he was dismissed without further consideration. He, and therefore we, don’t know why.”

“Did Pansy know about this?” Hermione asked.

Caradoc shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. It’s another one of the gaps in Dougherty’s memory. My conjecture is that the poor girl had not met him, or even heard of him. He perhaps succumbed to delusions of grandeur, imagining himself gaining a position of great importance amongst the Death Eaters through his innate worth and this connection to a pure-blood family. When neither became reality, his baser side took over.” Caradoc closed his eyes for a moment, as if steeling himself. “According to court records, Auror Tiberius Hilliard was to be responsible for Miss Parkinson’s integration into the Muggle world after her sentencing, but I believe Dougherty intercepted him and further modified Pansy’s memories once she’d already been Obliviated. When I questioned Hilliard on his duties concerning Miss Parkinson, there was a sizable gap in his memory.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “It makes sense. I remember the day she was sentenced; everything was so rushed and chaotic. I can see why no one was concerned with her after she was removed from the courtroom; the Ministry was so worried about neutralising Voldemort supporters that they never thought to check on their progress in the Muggle world, or how they might cope.” She shook her head. 

“I’m grateful that your interests lie in the pursuit of justice for the underdog, Miss Granger. Had your efforts been focused towards more selfish goals, I fear the Wizarding world would be trembling at your feet.”

The blush she had willed away earlier returned in full bloom. “I don’t think—”

“Compassion is just as powerful as love,” Caradoc said as he stood. He looked purposely in Draco’s direction. “I daresay it’s a trait that will be sorely needed in the time to come.”

Peasegood led Draco from the examination room to a chair beside Pansy, then beckoned them to approach. Hermione followed Caradoc, her mind still coping with what she’d heard.

“Unspeakable Philemon,” Peasegood said with a slight bow. “I thank you for your trust in my abilities, but I’m inclined to say this is a case where we may never fully understand what occurred.”

Caradoc indicated that Peasegood should proceed. 

Peasegood looked a little green; he was evidently deeply disturbed at what he’d learned. “After extensive examination of both parties, my initial conclusions are as follows.” He waved his wand and Pansy rose slowly to her feet and came to stand before them. “Prior to her sentencing, while she was being held in a containment cell, Miss Parkinson was approached by Unspeakable Calvin Dougherty. He asked if she would consider his suit if he were able to reduce her sentence. Miss Parkinson refused, multiple times, stating that she did not love him and that she was in love with another man—Mr Malfoy, in fact. After her sentencing, she was brought to our department. Unfortunately, I was not in a leadership position at that time, so the task fell to another. I’m sad to say, she was subjected to an Obliviation that was…well… I think butchery is not too strong a word.”

Hermione thinned her lips in an effort not to scream at the injustice. 

Peasegood cleared his throat. “There was also a considerable application of _Memento Apposui_ by Calvin Dougherty—so much so that it’s quite difficult to distinguish the true events from the false memories.”

“Gilderoy Lockhart specialised in Memory Charms,” Hermione offered. “Has anyone studied his case?”

“Several have tried, but the key to unlocking his mind has yet to be found,” Peasegood said. “With Miss Parkinson, it’s not so much that the key can’t be found as the lock itself—there are hundreds, and a single key won’t open them all.”

“Merlin,” Caradoc breathed. “Poor child.” He touched Pansy’s cheek. “What else have you found out?”

“She was placed in a Muggle flat on Little Newport Street, above the Café Rouge. Here I will need to incorporate Mr Malfoy’s memories.” Draco rose reluctantly and stood next to Pansy. “His last untampered memory is of being at the Bridge Tea Rooms in Bradford-on-Avon, and of Mr Dougherty stopping at his table to chat. He was most likely dosed with a Sleeping Draught slipped into his tea. He awoke in an unfamiliar flat. He immediately recognised Miss Parkinson, who was in the room with him but incapacitated at the time, and tried to escape, but his wand was not on his person. It may have been taken by Dougherty or destroyed altogether. In his confused state, it was easy for Dougherty to subdue him. Miss Parkinson roused when Mr Malfoy’s attempt to escape was thwarted, but she did not recognise him.”

“So he kidnapped them both, trapped them there? But why?”

“Dougherty told Miss Parkinson that Mr Malfoy was her husband, Calvin, and stated—with malicious intent if I may say—that he ‘hoped they’d be bloody happy in marital bliss, chained to each other’. That ‘if she wouldn’t have him, then he would have her forever, bound together, even if she didn’t know it’.”

Tears seeped from Draco’s eyes, but he said not a word nor made a sound.

“Dougherty then gave Miss Parkinson a large flask and told her to give her ‘husband’ one spoonful a day. Dougherty impressed upon her that should she fail to give him this ‘vital medication’, he would become ill, angry, perhaps mentally unstable and even fail to recognise his own wife.” Peasegood looked at Caradoc. “I cannot be certain of the contents of the flask, but given the effects on Mr Malfoy, I believe it was Amortentia. I can’t confirm this, however, because his body has already processed what he has already ingested.”

“It is possible,” Caradoc prevaricated. “Is there any more we should know?” 

Peasegood winced. “There was an added component to the potion,” he admitted grimly. “It was laced with a Sanguis Bond, comprised of blood taken from Miss Parkinson.”

At this news, Draco lost all composure and dropped to his knees, sobbing ‘no’ over and over. 

Hermione moved to comfort him, but Caradoc held her back. “In due time, my dear. You know as well as I do that a Sanguis Bond is difficult to break, even if the union is entered under duress or coercion.”

Oh, yes. She knew, and it gutted her just as surely as it was doing to Draco. It took every ounce of strength she had to will her body not to join him on the floor. 

Peasegood looked apologetic. “There is a bit of hope—the Sanguis Bond was one-sided. Miss Parkinson did not ingest any potion and her belief that she is married to Mr Malfoy is a product of Calvin Dougherty implanting a false memory of their wedding. I believe it was Dougherty’s intention to return at a future time and replenish Miss Parkinson’s supply of the potion, but he was incarcerated before he could carry out his plan.”

A one-sided blood bond, steeped in Amortentia. Hermione gave a pained laugh, uncaring of the tears prickling her eyes. “How, exactly, is a half-formed blood bond hopeful news?”

“Miss Granger,” Caradoc chided gently. “Peasegood is only the purveyor of the information. He is not the perpetrator.”

Hermione sniffed and angrily wiped at her eyes. “My apologies. So, what happened after they were well and truly under the potion’s effects?”

Peasegood looked distinctly uneasy. “That is where the gaps in memory begin to merge with added memories. Some of them are pleasing, some of them are indicative of neglect, some of abuse, although what memories I was able to retrieve are all tinged with madness, at least on Miss Parkinson’s part. Due to the Obliviation debacle and the pervasive use of Memory Charms, Miss Parkinson truly has no firm grip on reality. There are times of lucidity, such as when she is able to hold down a Muggle job, but it’s possible memories from when she was a witch bleed through and distort her mind to the point she becomes violent.”

“And Draco would willingly follow her into that madness because he was bonded to her,” Hermione whispered. She turned to Caradoc. “Draco told me he didn’t love Pansy, but that he felt compelled to stay with her. I didn’t think the Sanguis Bond worked like that.”

Caradoc looked thoughtful. “They don’t, at least not usually. The bond forces a _tendre_ upon both parties, opening pathways to cement affection and love. A one-sided bond… well, if one party was not amenable to the connection, there may be ways to lessen the hold on the unintended party.”

“How?” Hermione demanded, desperate for a solution. “If we can weaken the bond, then maybe over time Draco can go back to living his own life.”

Caradoc frowned. “Miss Granger, it’s not your decision to make. It’s Draco’s.”

“But he’s incapacitated, _non compos mentis_ , in a non-objective state! How can he make that sort of—” 

“Enough!” Draco spat, his voice sharp. He slowly stood and fixed Hermione with a hard glare, his eyes red and still wet with tears. “I appreciate all that you’ve done to help me, Granger. Truly.”

At the use of her surname, Hermione’s heart clenched painfully in her chest. Didn’t he understand that she was trying to help him return to his family, to his old life? And then she remembered the treatment he’d received after the war, and how it had in fact not been much of a life at all. She wanted to be so self-righteous in her anger at Pansy Parkinson, to hate her for all that had happened in the past three years. But she couldn’t; as Caradoc had said earlier, both Draco and Pansy were victims. 

“When you were away from her, the blood bond didn’t affect you as much,” Hermione urged, trying to sway Draco’s decision. “Maybe with time and distance, you could—”

“Stop, Hermione,” Draco said softly.

Anguish, pain, despair, everything wretched that had been building within her for months, even years, engulfed Hermione with Draco’s words. Inside her, there was a maelstrom, thrashing at her battered heart, but on the outside she bit her bottom lip to keep the sobs inside. She’d lost her fight for Draco; she’d be damned if she lost her pride as well.

When she’d composed herself, Hermione gave Draco a sad, small smile. “Sorry,” she managed, though her voice croaked. “Of course it’s your decision, Draco. You should be happy for once.” She held out her hand. 

Draco studied her for a moment, then grasped her hand and tugged her close. He pressed his lips to her forehead and whispered, “Thank you. I need to do this on my own.”

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and stepped away. She quickly turned, unable to look at Draco again, and made her way to the door. Just as she was about to leave, Draco’s words made her pause.

“I’ll see you around, Granger.”

She didn’t acknowledge him as she quietly closed the door behind her.

* * *

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Hermione, but you look scarier than Snape at the moment.”

Hermione scowled at Harry, but remained silent.

Harry crumpled up his napkin and tossed it at her head. “Seriously, what’s wrong?”

She brushed aside the napkin and pinched the bridge of her nose. “How many times do I have to tell you, Harry? I can’t reveal anything about what happened. The consequences are definitely not worth it.”

“I’m guessing they have to do with Malfoy, though.”

“Drop it, Harry,” she warned, sending him a heated glare. She loved Harry, she really did, but he was like a hippogriff with a tasty morsel when he wanted to know something and was denied the answers to his questions. No doubt that’s why he made a good Auror—he was persistent when he needed to be. It made it seven kinds of Hell, though, when she had something she wanted to keep private.

“And how does he repay all your hard work in finding him? He returns to the Muggle world with nary a word to his family or you as to why.”

Oh, she could speculate as to why, not that she could ever tell Harry the details, or anyone for that matter. She didn’t even know the whole extent of what had happened after she’d left, although Caradoc had been kind enough to send an owl to her, letting her know that Draco had decided to return to the Muggle world for reasons that would remain his own. That had been a little over three months ago. There hadn’t been any correspondence with Draco since then, and it wasn’t like Hermione could just write to him out of the blue; everything had to remain hush-hush due to the parties (and potion) involved. The enforced silence was like a heavy weight slowly crushing her; there was no one she could talk to about any of it, isolating her further. 

“You two used to see or talk to each other every couple of days before he disappeared. Now that you know he’s okay and decided he doesn’t want to talk anymore, I’m guessing it’s taking its toll on you.”

Good old Harry. She could always count on him to poke at her until she either lashed out in anger or broke down in sobs, puncturing the balloon of emotions that needed to burst. But in this instance, neither was welcome. “Wrong,” she muttered. “He already thanked me. That’s it, nothing more. I had a job, and I completed it. Now drop it.”

Harry’s mischievous smile slowly faded. “Sorry,” he mumbled, actually sounding contrite.

She took one last gulp of her drink, grimaced and stood. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Harry. I just can’t tell you, that’s all.” She squeezed his shoulder and pressed a kiss to his hair. “Love you.”

He captured her hand and pulled her into an awkward hug. “Love you too, Hermione. It’ll be okay.”

She made her way out of the Leaky Cauldron, trying to believe Harry’s words, but failing miserably.

* * *

Ten pages into the latest investigation report on a rash of Wizard portrait thefts (and dear Merlin, the notes were as useless as a leash for a Kneazle), Hermione was disturbed from her tedious task by a sharp rap on her office door. “Come in,” she muttered, not bothering to look up.

“Must be engrossing stuff.”

Her heartbeat stuttered and her breath whooshed out of her throat. She closed the file, concentrating very hard on keeping her hands from shaking, and sat back in her chair. A nervous-looking Draco stood by the door, dressed in clothes associated more with a wizard than a Muggle. 

“Not particularly. It’s more like looking at samples of troll dung,” she managed.

Draco smiled hesitantly and sat down in the chair in front of her desk. “You’ve been busy.” He nodded at all the files piled on her desk.

She gave him a pained smile. “Yes, well, when you’re the head of a department…”

He returned the smile, but the atmosphere felt stilted, tense with things that were left unsaid. Why was he here, after months of no contact? She’d read a few articles about his family in the _Prophet_ , but had heard nothing from him directly. She’d wanted to visit his parents shortly after his return but Caradoc had advised against it, saying cryptically, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

She didn’t know whose absence was supposed to make whose heart fonder, so she’d buried herself in her work, trying to forget any of it had ever happened. After all, the whole adventure had lasted only a few days, though the repercussions would likely last a lifetime for them both. For all three of them, she amended, remembering Pansy. She didn’t know what had happened to her and she’d been afraid to ask in case Caradoc would consider it a breach of privacy. But that didn’t mean the questions still didn’t burn in her mind. 

Self-preservation very much at the forefront of her mind, Hermione was about to offer the feeble excuse of a pre-existing obligation and show Draco out when he laid a crumpled package on her desk. She glanced up at him, meeting grey eyes that caused her heart to behave rather strangely. “What’s this?”

“I thought you might like them,” Draco said, looking a bit uncertain. “I know Mother does.”

Carefully, Hermione opened the parcel to reveal two Ice Mice.

“I still got the cold shoulder at the shop, but none of the insults,” Draco assured her with a grin.

She couldn’t swallow past the lump in her throat as she touched the sweets. 

“If you don’t like them, I can buy something else...”

Hermione looked up at his worried tone. “These are just fine,” she whispered, not trusting her voice. 

Draco smiled fully. “Good. And I’d like to invite you to luncheon at the Manor. Mother insisted.” His smile faded and he glanced down at his folded hands perched atop his crossed knee. “I’m sorry that I haven’t talked to you until now.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I just felt…”

He faltered, as if he didn’t have a firm grasp on what he wanted or where he was going. It was painful to watch, but she wasn’t sure how to help. If his torment was half of what she’d been going through the past twelve weeks, real or due to the bond, it was a wonder he hadn’t collapsed from the sheer weight of it. 

She wanted to ask about Pansy, but it was none of her business. And really, all she cared about now was easing his discomfort. “It’s all right, Draco,” she said quietly. “You’ve gone through an ordeal that would leave most wizards or witches with a permanent place in St Mungo’s.”

He gave her a sideways look. “How do you know I don’t have a day pass from the Janus Thickey Ward?”

She snorted. “Because your robes are pristine, and you, Draco Malfoy, are an incessant drooler when you’re crazy.”

They both laughed until tears misted her vision and her belly ached, and it felt good.

“My salivary habits are nothing compared to your nocturnal running commentary,” Draco pointed out.

Her eyes widened. Oh, gods. She could only imagine the sort of things she’d said in her sleep. “What did I say?”

He gave her a wicked look. “I’ll never look at asparagus the same way.”

Mortified, she buried her face in her hands. “I hate asparagus.” She stayed that way for a long moment, until she felt fingers card through her hair.

“Good to know,” Draco said softly. He let his hand drift down to cup her cheek and raise her face. “I would’ve been quite jealous if you’d professed your undying love for the nasty veg.” He closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, pressing his lips to Hermione’s gently at first, sliding his lower lip against hers then tracing it with the tip of his tongue. He pulled back just as she felt her body beginning to respond. “I should’ve done that long ago,” he admitted.

She swallowed thickly—it was all she was capable of doing in that moment—and leaned her forehead against his. She would be a liar if she said that she didn’t want this, but she would also be a deluded fool if she let herself get swept up in a relationship that was doomed before it started. 

“Pansy is… gone,” Draco said, answering her unspoken concern. He released her and sat back in his chair, his expression pensive. “Actually, there wasn’t much of Pansy left after they determined the full extent of the damage Dougherty did to her.” Draco’s face was tired, regretful. “With as trampled as her mind was from the Obliviate and multiple _Memento Apposui_ , she was just a disaster waiting to happen. Even the Muggle persona he’d imprinted on her psyche was fractured beyond repair.” He inhaled sharply and gave Hermione a desperately sad look. “I had to go back to the Muggle world with her, to see if I could help her. I had to try, you know?”

“Because of the bond?” Hermione asked carefully.

He scrubbed his hands through his hair in apparent frustration. “Maybe. I don’t know, honestly. Wouldn’t you have done the same for Potter or Weaselbee?”

She wanted to think that she would, but she was grateful not to have been put in that position. “I think… it takes courage to do something that you don’t feel comfortable with, but that you know is the right thing.”

He snorted. “Does it? I think there’s a difference between being a survivor and having true courage. I’m a survivor, full stop. I’ve had to be. I’ve done things in self-preservation, not because it benefited the greater good. I stayed with Pansy because I knew that if I left, I would start to deteriorate. I didn’t stay for any misguided notion of love; I stayed because I didn’t want to bloody die! For weeks, I watched her become lucid for a few minutes, recognise me, then become completely lost to whatever chaos her mind had become. Watched as she started wasting away because she didn’t have the brain function to remember to feed herself. Watched as she…” He pursed his lips and was silent for a long time before he sniffed. “She told me she was really tired one night and she went to bed early. We slept in the same bed, but nothing had ever happened. When I got up the next morning, she was still sleeping; at least, I thought she was.” He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and inhaled wetly. “When she didn’t respond to me calling her name, I realised she’d died in her sleep.” 

“Oh, Draco, I’m sorry.” A broken blood bond was agonising and often resulted in death of the other partner if one was lost. Hermione reached out her hand and he grabbed hold of it immediately. “That was a brave thing you did, going back to the Muggle world for her.”

“Not sure about that,” he managed. “I really hated it.”

“But you did it for her.”

He nodded, clearly too distraught to say much else on the subject. 

“When did this happen?” She hadn’t read anything in the _Prophet_ , so either it had been recent, or more likely, never reported.

He sniffed again and cleared his throat. “Two weeks, I think. I’ve been with Mother and Father since then.”

She squeezed his hand. “And how is that going?”

Draco smiled in spite of himself. “Bloody awful! I feel like I’m suffocating from three years’ worth of familial affection. Father cries often. It’s a bit surreal.” 

Hermione tried not to laugh but her face must have shown her thoughts, and when Draco snorted inappropriately, she joined in. His fingers tightened around hers, tugging. She rose and moved around the desk, all of her earlier tension vanishing the moment he wrapped his arms around her in a crushing embrace. 

“It’ll take some time,” Draco murmured against her temple, “but the bond will dissolve completely, now that she’s gone. I don’t suppose I can convince you to wait?”

She closed her eyes and savoured his presence. “Wait for what?” 

He nuzzled into her hair. “For me to sort out my priorities, because you’re really starting to grow on me, Granger.”

She could feel his smile. The road to his heart would be fraught with highs and lows, but she was prepared for the journey. “More like a lovely moss than a horrid fungus, I hope.”

He laughed and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Either way, it’ll be a better life.”

And that’s all she could ask for either of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phlox's prompts were:
> 
> 1\. "Fasten your seatbelts. It's going to be a bumpy night." --All About Eve
> 
> 3\. Trapped-together, a mystery to be solved, "You can't be serious."
> 
>  
> 
> Phlox, I stole a little from each prompt: 
> 
> 1) The seatbelt quote - I thought about creating a story based on the movie, but it creeped me out to imagine either Hermione as Eve or Bette Davis' character Margo, so I snagged the quote instead.
> 
> 3) Trapped together, a mystery to be solved.


End file.
